


fearsome

by finaljoy



Series: fearsome and fury [1]
Category: Frontier (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Drama, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Power Dynamics, Romance, Unhealthy Relationships, basically my thesis is shipping fixes everything, but is it romance if the two involved are just so.......awful, grace is a wonderfully terrible person, jonathan has mega damage, toss me into the sin bin i know what i've done
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2019-04-29
Packaged: 2019-08-26 10:44:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 34,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16680142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finaljoy/pseuds/finaljoy
Summary: This is how Grace won; she took a tiger by the tail, and then she tamed it.





	1. chapter one

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a year and I still have very strong feelings about how Grace should have handled Chesterfield. Also, season three is almost here, so basically we're just seeing how many thousands of words I can devote to a Very Bad Idea before canon completely annihilates me.

Jonathan Chesterfield was vicious, smart, and terrible dangerous, this Grace knew. But he also had the terrible habit of showing her his underbelly, and she had not made it this far for nothing.

So when he, her newly made _husband,_ attempted to kiss her, Grace saw all the possibilities that went with it. She saw all the dangers, of course. The thought of Malcolm Brown’s mangled face, Chesterfield’s hand at her throat, the cold _you’ll have to get in my bed,_ it all swirled in her mind and made her pull away. But when he kissed her again, she bit her tongue and thought of an excuse.

“I need _time_ , Jonathan,” she said hurriedly, hands on his chest in an effort to both keep him back and to placate him.

“Just give _into_ it, Grace,” he said, mouth turning in an attempt to find hers. “Your father is a mirage, so is Harp. This is not—” His words trailed off as he kissed her neck, his beard scraping against her skin.

Grace sucked in a breath and grabbed his face, holding him before her when what she wanted to do was shove him back and break a candlestick over his head.

“You said you didn’t want to take my independence,” she blurted, seeing the sparks of anger in his eyes. “Don’t make me do this. Let me choose. Give me a day and I’ll—I’ll come back.”

The words were vinegar on her tongue, but she didn’t blink, didn’t grimace, didn’t dig her nails into his face.

“I’m tired of your games, Grace,” Chesterfield growled, taking another step forward.

Grace moved with him, palms still pressed flat on his cheeks. “ _One day,_ Jonathan. When have I ever broken my word?”

The answer was plenty of times. Promises were pie crusts or primroses to Grace—easily broken and never meant to last, anyway. But Chesterfield wasn’t meant to know that.

“Please, Jonathan. Just…let me have this night, and then you can have the next.”

He eyed her, gaze cold and seeing far too much. She had thought him a fool, once, a big, stupid brute that reveled in blood and pain. That had been her first mistake. Chesterfield was savage, yes, but he was just as cunning as she. While Grace had so smugly thought she had him fooled with all her lies and easily wrought explanations, he had pieced together a horribly accurate picture of her. And still he wanted her like a dying man craved breath.

“And what if you run away or concoct some clever scheme in the meantime?” he asked, voice low as a ripple of thunder.

“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she said, brassy and bold because this time, at least, there was no lie. There couldn’t be. “Burn down the Ale, cut out my tongue for a liar. You could personally stand outside— _outside_ , mind—my room the entire day, if it makes you feel better. But I promise you, I _am_ coming back. Partnerships are built on give and take, after all.”

Maybe Chesterfield saw something in her face, because his gaze flickered along with his resolve.

“One day,” he said, then pulled back to show he wasn’t so easily ruled. “Don’t test me, Grace. You’re not getting that letter if you do.”  
“Never,” she said, heart still ragged against her ribs.

She looked down at the ground, then touched his chest again. It was small, a tiny gesture, really, but she knew she was well on her way to catching his heart in her palm.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” she murmured, then left the room.

Grace didn’t look to see if he watched her leave, just like she didn’t check the letter in her boot until she was safely locked away in her room in the Ale.

 

The next day she made good on her promise, because Chesterfield would rain down hell and suffering if she did not. And (and this was the thing that she clung to), the more he trusted her word the easier it would be for her to make it law.

She did consider other options, of course. Slitting Chesterfield’s throat when he kissed her, fleeing into the woods, burning down all of Fort James because she hated this place and would rather climb from ashes than be made a house pet, but no. Those were rash, careless things to do. She would swallow this poison if it made her immune to all others.

Chesterfield looked almost surprised when she was led into the parlor. And maybe even a little relieved, but she was too anxious to really dwell on that.

“I almost didn’t think you would come,” he said, tilting back his head.

“Business at the Ale, as usual,” she said, hands clasped tight to hide her shake. Grace knew what she was doing and she knew the benefits but something inside her still _screamed_ at the necessity of it. “But I’m here now. Besides, I’d rather go to you than have you come to me.”

If Chesterfield was bothered by the vague accusation, he didn’t react. He instead watched her, eyes tracking every move. Grace didn’t like this damnable stillness he’d found. He was much easier to control when he didn’t take time to think.

“You were insistent that I come,” Grace said. “Have you changed your mind?”  
“Not likely,” he scoffed. Chesterfield stood, still watching her. He was dressed down as before, in his black shirt and newly-made vest. His sleeves were rolled up again, revealing his forearms. The sight of his skin made her wonder where the brand was, if his story had even been true.

She swallowed hard and looked at his face.

He gave her a slight smile, one without much humor. “You needn’t look so worried, Grace.”

“’Worry’ isn’t what I’d call it,” she said.

“Then what?”

In that moment, her traitor heart squirmed and asked very quietly _what about Declan?_

She set her jaw. This was for Declan—no, for her, his life was just a benefit—but why did she _care_ , he had made it so obviously clear that he didn’t—not in that way at least—she needed to shut up shut up _shut up—_

Chesterfield gave her another not-quite-amused smile, snapping her out of her thoughts.

“Let’s just go,” she said, shrugging out of her coat. She felt inhumanly hot all of a sudden, her heart beating faster and faster the more she waited.

Chesterfield watched her, waiting just long enough for her to settle her coat on the back of a chair, then led her upstairs.

Grace focused on breathing. It had been hard the first time she had arranged another man’s death. It had twisted her stomach to horde secrets and feed people lies. First times were always terribly hard, especially when it was something that couldn’t be undone. But she grew accustomed to them, just like anything else.

Besides. Even if Chesterfield proved too unwieldy to fall under her thumb completely, there were always more secrets for her to learn at his side. Men usually weren’t at their best with their trousers on the floor.

The bedroom was pretty enough, with the bright plaster turned honey gold by the fire. The bed stood big and intimidating, glaring at her as she stepped in. Another door nestled in the far wall, making Grace wonder at the size of the house. It was no estate house, but it certainly outdid the dull cabins and homes that populated the fort. The desk seemed to be the only thing Chesterfield had touched all day, with his cloak and cast over the chair and a bottle of win sitting next to the glasses.

“Would you like a glass?” he asked, gesturing at the bottle.

“Don’t tell me it’s a wedding present,” she said, feeling somewhat safer with her usual spiny armor in place.

“Just…something to make you more at ease.”

She didn’t know what to do with the _hope_ in his eyes, so she nodded and pretended to examine the room again.

The wine was good, but it mostly reminded her of her fight not to come here after a bottle and a half of her own whiskey, so she only drank some and then set the glass down.

Chesterfield was close enough that she could feel his heat on her back. He touched her arm, barely, and she set her shoulders.

His kiss wasn’t frantic like the day before, but it was too…everything. Heated, desperate, needy, dangerous, final. Grace’s panic rose in her throat and she choked on them both. She was going to be sick, she was going to be sick and he would be furious and then he’d probably gut her because strangling was too clean.

Grace turned away, almost coughing on her fear.

Chesterfield’s voice was ice. “Don’t tell me this is going to become a habit. Grace, I—”  
“Just—shut up,” she snapped, throwing out a hand like she could catch his words in her fist. “Just—I’ll be fine, just let me breathe for one fucking minute.”

“And how am I—”

“ _Jonathan,_ ” she said, voice breaking— _dammit,_ she had promised herself that he _would not see her break—_ and yet coming out all the same. She turned and let him see the fear on her face because she couldn’t hide it, but she could certainly lie about it. “I just…I’m afraid. This frightens me and I hate that it does but I can’t stop it, so just…let me be afraid.”

Chesterfield stared at her, too many thoughts flitting across his face for her to pick any single one out. He furrowed his eyebrows and stepped closer. “Grace, I never meant—this isn’t meant to be a _punishment._ No harm will come to you.”

“It’s not _that_ ,” she laughed, though a bit of it was. “I told you. I’m afraid that being _Mrs. Chesterfield_ will leave me lame. No power, no freedom just…bed warming.”

“You have to know I’d never want that,” he said, voice almost soft. She could barely make herself look at him. “I don’t want a woman that sits quietly by. I value you _because_ you’re brave and clever. I’d never try to strip you of that.”

But he would have her tamed, just as she would have him. They were wickedly perfect in that way.

“This is about making us _stronger,_ not cutting you down,” he continued. He touched her elbow and she made herself look at him rather than flinch back. “If we hold nothing in reserve from one another, think of all that could be made.”

That was it. She just had to think of all she could do with the power of a governor in her hand. There was always some blood for the benefit of peace.

Grace let out a slow breath, then shook her head. She looked at the window, the darkness outside bleeding in through the light curtains. This was it. She had spent the whole day trying to think her way out of this, spent weeks on it before even that, and this was all she could fathom. If she traded away this little piece of herself, Jonathan Chesterfield would give her the world. This wasn’t for her business or for Declan’s survival or for the people Chesterfield would so gladly turn into shrapnel for his own ends. This was about Grace and how she could get exactly what she wanted.

She stepped out of Chesterfield’s reach again and picked at her over shirt. Grace shrugged out of it, then looked at him. He devoured her with his eyes, ready to devour her with his lips.

Grace kissed him once, a tiny thing, really, but just enough to get her feet under her. Then she tried again, and then Chesterfield was kissing her back. His hands were on her hips, fingers burning and spread wide to consume as much of her as possible. Their bodies were pressed flat, he was kissing her, he was kissing her like he would never taste her again.

And then he slowed, mouth opening so that his tongue found hers. His hands clutched at her blouse, pulling it free from her breeches. Grace gasped when his hands found her skin. She had never been touched there before, certainly not like this. It was dizzying, watching all of her barriers be broken and knowing that she should protest, fight, escape, but also knowing that she had chosen to destroy them from the beginning.

Her breath caught when his hands crept up her spine, when his kisses trailed to her neck. Grace closed her eyes. The pit of her stomach kept flipping, first from nerves, then dislike, and then some strange sort of… _enjoyment?_ Chesterfield walked them back to the bed, and the devil inside Grace _wanted_ this. Not him, but _this._

Things became hazy after that. She was on the bed and he was pulling off her boots and she fumbling with his vest and shirt and then he had her flat and ran his hands down her front like he was stroking gold. She stopped breathing when he reached her hips, her thighs. Every part of her tingled, terrified and anticipating.

Chesterfield pulled off her breeches, the cold air hitting her skin like stones. He learned over and kissed her hip, close and yet not what she wanted. Then he took off her shirt, leaving her utterly bare. She pulled him down because she was no pretty maid to be acted upon. Chesterfield tugged her leg up around his waist, his hands exploring her body. pulling off his trousers as well.

Grace didn’t remember if she spoke. She couldn’t remember when it stopped feeling painful and just felt good, or when it had stopped mattering that this was Chesterfield. All she knew was that Chesterfield’s cock was hard and her mind was weak. He spread kisses and whispers across her skin, making her feel mighty and worshipped because she was a goddess, she was wonderful and beautiful, because _stay with me, Grace, stay with me, stay, stay, stay._

She didn’t. Once they were done—done _, don’t be so foolish, you’ve committed to a lot more yet_ —she eased off the bed and picked up her clothes. She was cold and clumsy, barely even herself.

Chesterfield sat upright and kissed the small of her back, right on her spine.

“Don’t go,” he mumbled into her skin. “There’s so much more I can do.”

She put her hand on his head, barely running her fingers through his hair. She couldn’t deny the terrible thrill at his willingness to beg.

“I—I have to go,” she muttered, pulling away before he remembered himself and made her stay. Breeches, shirt, over shirt—where were her stockings, surely they hadn’t been kicked under the bed—

Chesterfield caught her shoulders and turned her around, kissing her hard on the mouth. She could still taste the wine on his lips—after everything? No, surely it was gone, but then why else was she acting like this?—could feel the hollow need on his tongue. Now was the time to go or he’d never let her leave.

Grace backed away, half-dressed, clutching her boots to her chest. They stared at each other in a wretched moment of clarity, seeing each other for exactly what they were: twisted and desperate and full of fear.

Grace disappeared behind the door. She yanked on the rest of her clothes as she hurried down the hall, snatching up her coat on the way out.

No one stopped her, no one looked at her. She managed to make it to the Alehouse and up to her room without any incident.

Her hands still thrummed with excitement and confusion because she had done exactly as she had asked, but she was certain, _certain,_ that he had fallen this round.

The next day, the reward posters were taken down around Fort James.

 

Maybe it was a mistake for Grace to not return over the next week. She’d meant to, of course, if only to step in and make sure Chesterfield didn’t get any ideas while her back was turned. But she was haunted by the last moment she had seen of him, both of them so exposed, so terribly honest. Grace had always assumed greed, lust and cunning was the bedrock of their relations, in one way or another. She hadn’t actually expected (allowed) there to be anything more sincere. And she _certainly_ didn’t want to admit that sex with Jonathan Chesterfield had been anything but repugnant. If it had been anyone but him, she might have even said it was nice.

But, of course, she didn’t go, and there were consequences for it.

Chesterfield blazed into the Alehouse when Grace least expected it. She wouldn’t have put it past the bastard to have timed his entrance just so.

“Jonathan,” she said, trying hard to not sound alarmed.

“Back,” he growled, sweeping past the bar.

Grace allowed herself to exchange one brief look with Mary, then slipped into the back. Chesterfield stood waiting, watching her with the stillness of a wolf. She pulled the curtain, careful not to turn her back to him. He didn’t look angry, but there was a calculating edge to his wickedness.

She was really starting to miss the days when he had been hobbled by masters. He was proving much too capable on his own.

“Well?” she sighed, cocking her head. “What’re you here for?”

“You’ve been awfully absent from the governor’s house over the last week, Grace.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You’re here because you’re lonely?”

“I’m _here_ because you haven’t been honoring your commitments as my wife. Did I somehow leave you unsatisfied?”

Grace cursed and shot a look at Mary, whom she could see through the barrels separating the bar and the back room. She grabbed Chesterfield’s arm and pulled him deeper into the room.

“Keep your voice down, people can hear you.”

“I wouldn’t have to speak in the open if you came to the privacy of our home,” he growled.  
“I have my own obligations,” she told him, eyes narrowed. “I will not set them aside so you can feel _waited on._ ”

“This isn’t—” He scowled and grabbed her shoulders. Grace tensed in spite of herself, readying herself in case he tried pinning her against the wall again.

Again. She was courting the devil with this dance of hers, and she was a damn fool to forget it.

Chesterfield hesitated, then eased his grip on her. He remained close, though, finally lowering his voice.

“This isn’t about _me_ , Grace. It’s about _us._ Tell me you didn’t enjoy our time together, that you wouldn’t like it again. This is only the beginning, as I’ve always said. With you at the governor’s house, just imagine the things we could achieve, the plans—”

“Move into the governor’s house? I would have thought the week of my not being there would have made it clear enough.” Grace broke free of his grasp, lip curling. She knew she should be careful, but there was something so gratingly _simple_ about his confidence. _Of course_ she would enjoy his touch, _of course_ she had gone astray for wanting anything that existed outside of him.

“I told you, I’m not your pet. Whatever fantasy you’ve concocted can go straight in the latrine without my say so.”

Chesterfield’s jaw ticked. “I have tried to be reasonable.—”  
“Reasonable! By threatening and forcing me to do what you want at each turn? That’s not what I’d call _reasonable._ You kept your part of our deal, and for that I’m thankful, for the sake of all of Fort James. But do _not_ think I’m indebted to you for it.”

Chesterfield grabbed her by the shoulders and forced her back onto the table. She sucked in a breath as her legs were knocked from under her and she landed hard on her backside. His fingertips dug into her arms, enough to promise a bruise. Violence, always violence with this man.

“If you’re so bent on putting your business duties first,” he began, voice barely a growl. His eyes roved over her face, settling somewhere near her mouth. “Then I will remove it from your care. As governor and your husband, I claim ownership of the Alehouse. If it continues to distract you, I’ll let whatever groveling pissant I choose be responsible for its services.”

“The Ale is the property of my father,” Grace hissed. “I run it in his stead. You cannot—”  
“Can’t I, Grace?” He looked at her, then, eyes wide and brutal as ocean ice. “Either you start respecting your responsibilities or I burn this place to he ground with all the legal might I have.”

She struggled to control her breath, to calm own, to think of a plan and stop antagonizing him further. He was threatening her livelihood, of course, her freedom _,_ but he wasn’t threatening _her._ Not like he had before. At least, not yet.

Grace glanced around, thinking, thinking, then nodded. It was a shaky thing, but it seemed to satisfy him. Chesterfield eased his hold on her, but still held her in place. When his gaze dropped to her mouth again, it seemed more like an afterthought.

“I long for the day,” he murmured, dipping his head closer, “when we no longer go to war like this.”

He stopped back, finally giving her room to breathe. He turned on his heel, then paused.

“Don’t stay away long, Grace. I mean it.”

He was gone barely a moment before Mary appeared, pretty face pinched with worry.

“Did he hurt you?” she asked.

“No,” Grace said, sliding off the table. She resisted the urge to rub her arms and make Mary even more upset. “He just doesn’t know how to speak a language other than brute force.”

Grace didn’t need to see Mary’s face to feel the reproach rolling off her. It was well earned, after all. She had bedded a tiger and expected it not to scratch. That was probably why she never did any of the dirty work herself, anymore. Grace had been hurt enough, she didn’t need any more.

“Grace, what are you going to do?” Mary asked, voice low. “You can’t just…he can’t _do_ this to you.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” she said with a casual hand wave. She would have to deal with Chesterfield directly. No more of these half measures, they only complicated matters. “I intend to explain that to him in a way he fully understands.”

 

Grace arrived at the governor’s house just after dark the following day. She smiled at the maid, then waved her off.

“I can see myself in on my own, thanks,” she said. The girl looked uncertain, but nodded and slipped away. No one in Fort James knew what to make of her marriage to Chesterfield, but then, no one had known quite what to make of them on their own, either.

Grace glanced through the parlor, the dining room, the side hall. Chesterfield wasn’t in any of them. She rolled her eyes and pulled off her coat. Her steps were quiet as she climbed the stairs. The door was cracked at the end of the hall, spilling out light from the fire place. She held her breath, then eased it open.

“What is it—” Chesterfield began, turning at the desk. He stopped when he saw her, a look of vague disbelief on his face. “Grace. you—why are you here?”

“I suppose...you could say I saw reason.” She let out a short breath, because even now those words were hard to say. _You were right, Chesterfield._ She didn’t intend to grow accustomed to saying them. “I don’t want to be at war with you, either.”

“Then you see what changes have to be made,” he said, standing up. “Focus more on _us,_ on the furs we still have to sell. Our plans needn’t be crouched in the dark any longer.”

“I just have to move in?” she asked.

He bounced his leg and lifted in chin in a show of confidence he didn’t feel. “It would be easier, yes. And…more comfortable.”  
“Comfortable,” she echoed. “I was plenty comfortable at the Ale.”

“More pleasurable, then.” He eased closer, wearing that half-lidded look that was becoming so easy to read. “Don’t tell me sharing a bed was so terrible.”  
“We were barely on the bed, from what I remember.”

“And whose fault is that?”

Grace looked down, shifted slightly. She didn’t want to think about her panicked escape the week before.

“It wasn’t…unpleasurable,” she admitted.

“If you were around more often, we’d be able to repeat it,” he whispered, half a smile on his face. He was so confident at getting what he wanted that he could already taste it, Grace was sure. He was near enough now that she could feel his breath on her cheek.

Grace looked up at him. “Sit down,” she whispered.

Chesterfield pulled her with him as he found the chair, mouth already on hers. She straddled his waist and his hands spread over her thighs like they were a revelation.

Grace was starting to get used to his beard. It had shocked her the first time they had kissed; rough and unrelenting on her face. But she was adjusting, learning like she always did.

Chesterfield kissed her deep and slow, teeth tugging on her lower lip. Her hands were in his hair, and he groaned when she tugged his head back to get a better angle. His breath stuttered when she rolled her hips against his, once, twice, enough to make his cock start straining beneath her.

His hands clenched in her shirt, bunching up the fabric in a valiant effort not to tear her clothes off that instant. His touched burned, greedy and puling as his hands transferred to her side.

Grace kissed his jaw, then down to his throat. He let out a sigh that was almost a word as she placed an open-mouthed kiss on his Adam’s apple.

“It could always be like this, Grace,” he murmured, pulling her closer like any space between them was an offense. “Just think how _good_ we could be.”

She shushed him, breath pooling over his skin. She kissed along the cord in his neck, teeth just barely trailing his skin. Then bigger, sweeping kisses on his throat, all teeth and tongue as she rocked her hips, making him hold her all the tighter. He groaned, completely open for her to read.

Grace twined her hands through his hair again, then clenched her fist and yanked his head back. He sucked in a gasp as she bared her teeth against his throat.

“Don’t you _ever_ threaten me or my business again,” she snarled. “I may be your wife, but I am first and foremost your partner, and I will not be treated as less.”

“Grace-“  
“Be quiet,” she hissed, yanking his head back again. His hands tightened around her hips, clearly ready to throw her off, but then he realized the danger of her teeth on his skin.

“That’s right,” she told him. “I could have killed you just now, and you’d have never been the wiser. Threaten me again, and I swear I’ll rip out your throat with my fucking teeth. _”_

He was still for a long moment, then nodded. Grace let go of him and got off his lap. He eyed her with a look that was a tangle of anger and awe and wanting.

“Not above violence now, are we, Grace?”

“I’m never above getting what I want, “ she told him. “Don’t threaten me again, Jonathan.”

He didn’t move as she backed out of the room, then vanished down the hall.

 


	2. chapter two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you look closely you'll notice that both jonathan and grace have mega power kinks and that's how you know they'll make this thing work.

Things were quite tidy after that. Grace managed the Alehouse and choked down her protests at being called 'Mrs. Chesterfield.' She sent off letters to potential buyers for the furs still in lock up ( _not_ to Samuel Grant, the traitorous bastard), and got on very nicely. When she saw Chesterfield in public, they were perfectly civil. Really, he could be quite biddable once she tore out his claws.

And then the liquor stopped coming in, and Grace knew she had made yet another problem for herself.

Oh, she'd done her best to bully and charm her suppliers in turn, but they all said the same thing: they had no alcohol for her.

"I don't think you realize, but I am the new governor's  _wife,_ " she'd finally hissed, her last, pathetic card.

The man before her fidgeted nervously. He was an overdressed wine peddler that somehow acted like he was still in France. Grace wasn't sure, but she suspected he had come over for the war in the south and conveniently forgotten to return to his homeland.

"Oh, ah, well, this is very uncomfortable," he stammered.

" _What_  is?"

"Well, ah, it's just…it was the governor that made the decree."

Grace closed her eyes and resisted the urge to push the man off a cliff. Him and Chesterfield both, the meddling, arrogant prick. She'd always known he was the kind to throw snowballs with rocks inside them, but this was a snowball wrapped around pig shit and he knew it.

"I'm sure you could go to him about your, ah, liquor license," the peddler continued.

" _Liquor license,_ " she scoffed, turning on her heel. She'd tracked the man down in the middle of the road in hopes of surprising him into a sale. Clearly, whatever threats Chesterfield had made, they were serious. Grace stalked away to find some pace warm.

She had maybe enough alcohol to last the week. Her French brandy suppliers hadn't returned since Benton's raid, and the idiot bounty hunters that had swept through looking for Declan had guzzled more than their share.

Maybe if she watered down the whiskey, fed it only to the drunks…but no, someone would slip and give the wrong cup to the wrong person and then she'd have to explain to a room full of trappers and soldiers why her quality had plummeted. Also, her father had taught her the trick and she despised everything it stood for. She'd been fourteen when she swore to never cheat her guests like her father had done. Hence the French brandy.

"Upset there, love?"

Grace didn't even bother to hide her jaw grinding as she turned to see Chesterfield, looking offensively comfortable in his new black cloak. No matter how brutally cold the air became, he always seemed to shimmer with heat.

"What exactly do I need to fix for my  _liquor license_?" she spat.

"Oh, Grace," he said, with a ' _tut tut_ ' that made her want to black his eye. He recognized enough anger in her face to not lecture her on proper manners and greetings, though. "A decent woman like yourself supplying rough, untrustworthy men with spirits. Who knows what sort of unwholesome things could arise when you get their blood up?"

Grace rolled her eyes, not sure where to start with that load of horse shit.

"You're doing this for jealousy?" she finally demanded. "Afraid some idiot beaver trapper will take a grab at me?"

"Oh, no, I know you can defend yourself," he said, like she hadn't defended herself against him with her teeth. "But it wouldn't be Christian of me to expose you to any such situation. Not as your new husband."

It wouldn't be  _Christian_ of him _._ It was  _Fort James,_  not the land of the damn Quakers.

Grace stood there fuming, horridly aware of how things had turned.  _This_  was what she got for descending into Chesterfield's level of brutality. He responded back with a scheme that even  _she_ hadn't expected. She'd be impressed, if she weren't staring down the throat of a drunkard's riot.

"Take a walk with me," he said, sweeping her along because they weren't idiots and both knew it hadn't been a request. Grace rolled her eyes again but let him take her arm like they were properly married, not a pair of connivers that stepped on hearts and throats alike to fulfill their aims.

They went a short ways before he said anything. Chesterfield clearly reveled in the world looking at them as a pair.

"Your interest in the Alehouse confuses me, Grace," he said. He looked ahead like he was commenting on the chances of snow. "You spend all this time making it as good as it can be, and yet you fail to use your greatest asset."

"You, I'm assuming."

"Exactly."

"Maybe I would, if every favor from you didn't have to be bartered and bought. Bleeding me dry doesn't exactly engender trust."

"And what hardship have you endured at my hands, Grace?"

She gave him a long, flat look. "Keeping me from stocking the Alehouse comes to mind."

"Because you wouldn't  _listen_  otherwise," he said, shaking his head like he couldn't believe she couldn't see the truth of it for herself. "I tried to get your attention all sorts of other ways, but you couldn't find the time of day."

"For a man that promised not to bother me after I  _joined you,_ " she said, the euphemism thick and disgusting as tar on her tongue, "you're certainly doing your best to become a nuisance."

"This isn't a personal matter," Chesterfield said, brushing off her word like dust. "It's all business."

"' _Business'_  suggests there's something for me to profit from."

"It's like you said, Grace—this partnership can only be successful if there's give and take."

She looked away. He was so damn  _infuriating._

"And what's  _your_  give?" she asked.

"You've remained at the Alehouse," he said, like it was obvious. "The business is yours, your time is yours, everything." He stopped, catching her arms to make her face him. "Your life is yours to live. I just expect to be in it."

She gave him a long, unwilling look. The cold, brutal part of her said this was just another step to the thing she wanted, but the more unpredictable, human part of her wanted to spit at the cost.

Grace looked out toward the sea, huffing out a breath. She had known this would be hard, distasteful, even, but she could not throw everything away just because she didn't want to sacrifice.

"Of course," she said, finally. "But it's hard when you attack the things I hold dear."

Chesterfield sighed through his nose. He was clearly biting back a retort of his own, which Grace couldn't help but wonder at.

"Let's start fresh," he said, finally letting go of her. "Let's work  _together_ , Grace, as you once suggested."

She narrowed her eyes, testing his sincerity. Her first thought was for the alcohol she still needed, but the second was taken with how very useful it would be, if Chesterfield offered to break himself for her.

"No more tricks?" she asked.

"None."

"And you won't impede the working of my business anymore?"

"If you back me as you said you would. I promise it'll be worth your while."

Grace considered him, working her jaw. The deal sounded as sweet as it would ever be, but Chesterfield had a terrible habit of renegotiating terms without her knowledge. Then again, he might think twice with the tangible threat of her wrath lurking around the corner.

"The liquor vendors will give me all I need, tomorrow?" she asked.

"First light."

"Fine," she said, folding her arms. "What is it you have in mind?"

* * *

Grace  _hated_ wearing dresses. She'd gotten on as a girl, tromping around in her delicate boots and excess layers because her father had demanded it. The moment he'd decided to give up caring entirely, she'd gone straight to the tailors and never looked back.

But, of course, now Chesterfield needed her to wear one.

Some days, he made it very hard to not throw something at his head. The only reason Grace had agreed, of course, was because there was money to be made.

A nearby governor and fellow member of the Hudson's Bay Company had warmly invited himself and his friends to Fort James. Why, neither Grace nor Chesterfield could be sure, since Benton had been left in frosty silence. Then again, maybe these men wished to endear themselves to the captain that so very comfortably deposed a noble and a governor. It  _was_  frightfully Continental, after all.

So Grace had to grind her teeth, not fidget with her stay, and try not to be sick as the corset squeezed out her will to live. If she and Chesterfield managed to look suitably loyal and respectable and utterly unambitious, then this retinue of powerful, self-important men might just make their schemes that much easier. If anything was out of place, Grace was certain a turn over of power wasn't far around the corner.

Chesterfield had also dressed for the occasion. No one would mistake him for a nobleman, but he cut a clean figure with his maroon vest and tidy new coat. He looked like a tiger pacing restlessly in a new jeweled collar.

"They'll be here any minute," he grunted.

"I know," she said.

"They'll be expecting a fine bred prat like  _Johnson_  to be waiting for them, not fucking us."

Grace looked at him, then put a hand on his arm. "Jonathan, calm down. You're no nobleman, there's no point in pretending to be. You've gotten this far without it, we'll be fine. Just be polite, stick to business, and don't look like you want to put their heads on a pike if they annoy you."

Chesterfield gave her half a look, which she promptly returned.

"Every time you talk about Johnson, you look ready to rip off his arms. The man's dead and you still look like you want to piss on his grave."

Chesterfield grimaced and looked back at the door. He tugged at his cuffs and cursed under his breath.

Grace gently took his shoulders and turned him to face her again. She made her voice as comforting and quiet as she could, like they were the only two in the world that had breath in their lungs.

"It's as you said," she told him. "Changed habits bring changed temperaments. They may seem big and impressive, now but so will you, once the role has time to fit."

He looked down at her, shock exposing itself for a moment. "You believe that?"

"Of course."

"And what about you?" he asked, that baffling bit of sincere confusion on his face again. "If they judge me, they'll come after you."

Grace smiled and brushed off the shoulders of his suit.

"What could they possible criticize me for? I'm the wife of the governor."

Chesterfield gave a flutter of an eyeblink, then caught her hand. "That's right. And I'll prove your faith in me."

Grace smiled again, because she expected nothing less.

When the visiting governor and his two friends entered, there were the complimentary say-nothings of conversation Grace always guessed happened at these sorts of things. None of the men had come with their wives, which Grace appreciated. She didn't have time to play double talk in another room while Chesterfield was left alone to broker their futures.

Grace studied their guests, wondering what on earth had brought them to the New World and what skeletons they had hidden in its fresh soil. The lord and governor, Sutherby, was fussy and reminded her of Governor Threadwell, albeit before he became a lewd drunk. He tittered and joked, but watched Chesterfield very closely indeed. The youngest member of the entourage was a trader named Scholes. Grace guessed from his accent that he had been born and raised in the colonies. He was not particularly handsome, but he breathed charm rather than air. He also flirted quietly with Grace when Chesterfield wasn't looking. She wondered if he would be so bold if he knew Chesterfield would likely string his entrails across the treetops if he caught him at it. And then there was the last member, a magistrate named Woodhull. He was stuffy, straightforward, and held all the humor of a recently woken bulldog. He made polite conversation, reprimanded the merchant's friendly manners, and looked tried every time Sutherby made a spotty joke.

In all, they were wonderfully without guile and very easy to please. Grace just had to play the part of the housewife and cast a few awed looks here and there. Thankfully, she was spared the trial of having to look ignorant and uninformed by a miscalculation on Sutherby's part. He had attempted to startle them by bringing up Grace's position in the Alehouse, his bland little smile clearly hiding a smug bit of satisfaction. Chesterfield responded with an equally innocent smile and reminded Sutherby that creating warm food and a comfortable home was the work of a woman, and wasn't it admirable that Grace was able to do it for so many? Scholes had promptly agreed with Chesterfield and flashed Grace a winning smile, making Sutherby bluster and change the subject before he lost too much ground.

"Tell me, though, Chesterfield," Sutherby eventually said, toying with his fork and knife. "I'd heard you were quite close with Lord Benton while he was here, his right hand, even. Then, of course, you arrested him."

"Lord Benton was a man weak to power," Chesterfield said boldly. Grace glanced at him, worried he might offend their clearly powerful guests, but he wore his words well. "He abused the powers granted to him by the Hudson's Bay Company, abused his men, endangered this fort, and dishonored the great name of our king. I could not sit by and let such vicious actions stand."

"My husband didn't relish his role in any of it," Grace said, eyebrows pulled in the sincerity of her lie. He had thrived on every second and they both knew it. "But he was duty bound to see order and respect restored to the name of Fort James."

"I have seen for myself the way power corrupts," Woodhull said. "It can turn even the best into mad dogs."

"And, well, we've all heard whispers of how it made Lord Benton turn," Scholes said into his wine.

"I wish they were only whispers," Grace murmured.

"Yes, well," Sutherby hummed. "One could argue that such dogged strength is needed out here in the wilderness, as it were. The Hudson's Bay Company can hardly afford sloppy leadership when everything else seems to be going to the dogs."

"And that is a strength I intend to deliver," Chesterfield, just as he should. Sutherby considered him over his wine glass.

Grace watched him intently. She could practically taste all of the prestige, all of the connections, all of the resources the man had to offer.

Chesterfield placed his hand on her knee. Grace breathed in slow, not looking away from Sutherby. But Chesterfield didn't squeeze her leg or push his advantage by sneaking his fingers farther along her skirt. His hand just stayed there, waiting, seeking reassurance.

Grace exhaled and put her hand over his.

"I suppose this is a time that tries us all yet rewards the best," Sutherby declared.

"Oh, absolutely," Scholes murmured, taking a drink of wine and giving Grace a look that tore through every single useless layer of her gown. "Rewards always find those that know what to do with their head."

Grace gave him a cool smile and looked at Sutherby. "But what are people, other than the company they keep?" she asked, and he preened and pretended to be bashful.

It was so obvious that everyone at the table thought she and Chesterfield sincere, duty bound, and interested only in the good of Fort James. What laughable nonsense.

* * *

The moment their guests were gone, Grace headed upstairs to get out of her damn skirt.

"Did you see that?" Chesterfield asked, eyes bright, following after her as she climbed the stairs. "Those idiots actually  _believed_ us."

"They  _believed_  because we gave them wine and unearned compliments." Grace couldn't help the smile that undercut her words, because she was excited, too. Certain victory always made her giddy.

"They believed because men of power trust power," Chesterfield corrected. She opened her mouth to counter, but he wasn't actually wrong so she let his comment stand.

"Where's that bell," she muttered, stepping into the bedroom. "I want to get out of this thing and go home because it starts snowing again."

"Grace, you needn't be in such a rush," Chesterfield told her. "We've plenty of time, yet."

"And in that time, it's definitely going to snow," she reminded him. She had to swallow her excitement before it made her stupid and reckless. "Unless you wish to conjure up a carriage for me, so I don't have to walk all the way back to the Ale in the cold."

Jonathan said something she guessed was clever in response, but Grace didn't hear over her cursing as she tried and failed to undo the back of her dress. The corset would be the death of her, she was certain.

"Would you  _please_  get the servant girl to come help me?"

"I've hands enough." The feather brush of his fingers on her back was enough to make her shiver.

Grace swatted at him lightly. "I don't trust you not to have other plans."

"Of course I do. Grace, we are so much farther along than either of us could have deemed being alone." He put his hands on her elbows, leaning closer. "We deserve to celebrate."

Grace gave him a long, unimpressed look. A part of her agreed, but that was the part she was  _not_  listening to.

"All you ever want is sex," she said. She had learned that criticism went along much better if he thought it harmless grousing. It stuck in his head, though, and it never took very long for him to start correcting the behavior.

To her surprise, Chesterfield looked down. He considered his hands, self-consciously pulled them from her.

"I want to make you happy here. I want this to be a place that you choose to sleep."

"And how will that change or improve things? We worked just fine today, regardless of where I sleep."

"Other than I had to chase you down to even  _inform_  you of the dinner."

"Right. That reminds me.  _You_ need to give back my bloody liquor, or you'll have a mob on your hands, Christian worries or no," she said, stabbing an accusatory finger into his chest.

He grinned and took her hand. "You'll get it tomorrow, as promised. I just needed your attention."

" _Most_ people usually say my name."

"Grace."

"Mm?"

" _Grace_."

His face was very close to hers, now, his nose barely brushing her cheek, his lips placing their words on hers.

Grace stepped back, swallowing down the shiver that danced across her back and hands and stomach. She remembered very keenly how his hands had run over her body. It echoed across her, the memory of it and the anticipation for more bouncing around under her skin.

She sat down pointedly in the chair. She was in control, she was in control. Chesterfield might have planted a few terrible thoughts in under her skin, but Grace was the one that decided how she felt and what she wanted.

"I'm not doing anything tonight," she told him flatly. "Get the bloody maid so I can go."

"And why do you so insist to change?" he asked, recovering  _very_  quickly indeed. Grace almost raised an eyebrow. He was learning this game much faster than she would have liked.

"If you'd like to put this on and find out, be my guest."

Chesterfield considered her, then stepped close. She watched him, wary of his next move, until he knelt in front of her.

"What're you doing?" she asked.

He didn't answer, but said, "I liked hearing you say you were my wife."

"Yes, well, it's been a fact for a while now."

"But I liked hearing you say it. I liked hearing you call me your husband."

Grace was ready to give another clipped response, but instead gasped when she felt him touch her leg. It was just her calf, it was smothered beneath all the layers of skirts between, but it was a touch she was not used to feeling.

"Jonathan. I have to go."

"You sat down, " he reminded her.

Grace toyed with the idea of getting up, saying to hell with it, walking home in her dress and praying some idiot wouldn't look too closely at what lay beneath her cloak in the dark. But his hand was beneath her skirt now, leaving just the nothing barrier of her stocking between.

And, well. She liked seeing Chesterfield on his knees.

"Tonight we charmed the lords of this land. They don't see us as a threat. Then we sell the furs, turn more profits, cut down the lawless misery that's carving these shores apart. Then, who knows.  _We'll_  be the ones everyone looks to for guidance, for permission."

His hands reached her thighs, making Grace bite her tongue. She wasn't going to gasp or say anything stupid that showed just how nervous and thrilled his touch made her.

She stared at him, fighting to keep her breath slow. Her skirt bunched up around his arms, revealing her legs. Chesterfield kept her gaze until his hands finally found her hips and he looked down at her knee. He kissed it, slowly, then up farther, then his head was between her legs.

Grace bit her cheeks, fists clenching in the air to keep from making a sound. She wouldn't let him know how very much she liked this, how it made her so dreadfully weak. Her body wasn't just another tool on his belt, it was hers, hers, hers.

And then he tried to pull away,  _too_   _soon_ , and Grace snatched hold of his hair. They were both still for a long, terrible moment, both trying to parse out exactly what this all meant.

Chesterfield came to his conclusion first.

Grace didn't bother hiding her moans this time. She'd already lost that battle of wills, and anyway, she'd be a fool to not let him know exactly what she wanted.

She couldn't stand his self-satisfied smirk when he finally looked up at her. It was indecent and smug and so deliciously dangerous.  _Think of all the things you have missed,_ that smile said, knowing that there wasn't a thing she could say to counter him.

He pulled himself up so their faces were level, his knee resting on the chair between them. He leaned in to kiss her, but Grace turned her head away.

"I'm not letting you kiss me like that," she told him.

Chesterfield just scoffed and kissed her neck, open mouthed and searing as always. He kissed her ear, her jaw, then tried for her mouth again.

"I told you  _no,"_ she said, turning her face the other direction.

He huffed and stepped away to rinse his mouth from the pitcher on the dresser. Grace pushed her skirts back down and stood, trying for some semblance of dignity, or control, or  _something_. Her hands still shook from the aftershocks of his touch.

Chesterfield turned back to her, eyes sweeping up and down her body like he expected some part of her to be wound tight with lust rather than defiance. He walked back, stopping just a breath away. When he glanced up to meet her eye, his gaze was every bit as filthy as Scholes' had been.

"Don't tell me you're still so eager to get out of that dress," Chesterfield murmured. Shivers broke out across her body because she wanted  _more._

Grace lifted her chin. Fine.  _Fine._  She was already neck deep, she might as well control the rest of her descent.

"Oh, I am," she said, then kissed him hard.

It was so startlingly easy to get out of their clothes this time. Her whole body wasn't gripped with fear, now, when Chesterfield's mouth skated across her collarbone as he undid her bindings. She picked open just enough buttons on his vest for him to yank it over his head. When his hands found her bare skin, Grace didn't think of it in terms of him taking her body away. This time, she noticed just how very easily he caved to her as well.

Grace pushed him down onto the bed and straddled his hips. His tongue was in her mouth and his hands were on her back and thigh, and when Grace rocked her hips forward he groaned very prettily indeed.

Grace had never cared much for sex, filtered as it had been through rough tavern goers and uncouth women. It was men taking what they wanted and leaving the women with children, shame, or injury. But now that Grace had had it for herself, now that she knew what  _power_  could come from it, she doubted she could ever get enough.

Chesterfield arched his back as she kept rocking, every part of him taut. It was so obvious what he wanted—money, power, prestige,  _Grace_ , but he wanted those things to want him, too. So Grace whispered her web of sweet nothings, telling him how well he had done, how far he had come, how much she enjoyed his body against hers. She whispered them over his lips and he drank them from her tongue.

"Faster," he grunted, hands grabbing hold of her hips, guiding her, making her move the way he needed. Grace's breath caught, his fingertips dug into her hip bones, and he grit out curse after curse until he was done.

He pulled her down to kiss him, slowly, luxuriously. Time didn't matter as he wound his hand through her hair, trailed his palm over her side.

"Tell me you're not still afraid," he whispered, their faces so close that their breath caught on each other.

Grace studied his face before his gaze found hers, a flick of his eyelashes and then he saw her in her entirety. Last time, she had turned and run and he'd been chasing her ever since. But then, he'd always been chasing her, following the trail she had laid down for better or worse.

She suddenly wanted to know what would happen if she let him catch her.

"I'm not," Grace murmured. She brushed his hair back from where it had fallen over his forehead, traced the patch of grey by his temple.

He looked down again, hesitating, hesitating.

"Does this mean you'll stay?"

"For the night," she promised, and Chesterfield pulled her closer, as if to make sure she kept her word.

* * *

Grace found she didn't mind waking up next to Chesterfield. She was warm, the bed was soft, and there was something strangely satisfying about feeling his arm thrown over her side.

Grace looked over his face in the almost dawn light. She didn't know what to do when he was so  _calm._ He was already awake, barely, and gave her the laziest blink. He could be so handsome when he wasn't threatening bodily harm.

She grimaced at the trail of cold air that snaked over her shoulder and nestled deeper under the covers.

Chesterfield smiled and kissed the edge of her mouth once she was close enough.

"I don't want to get out of bed," she muttered. She huddled closer to him, thankful for once that he was a furnace. No wonder he could run around in just his cloak.

" _This_ is why I kept insisting you stay," he said, a pleased smirk on his lips. Grace rolled her eyes and thumped his chest.

"I'm talking about the  _cold,_ you arrogant prick."

"That's no way to speak to your husband."

"You're making me regret being so nice last night."

"Ah, don't be like that," he said, kissing her again, more precisely this time.

Grace gave in, her hand looping through his arm to hold the back of his head. They were tangled together, arms and legs fitting wherever they may. Grace pushed herself a little more upright, chancing the cold air for a better position as he ran his teeth over her lower lip.

Chesterfield kissed her again and again and then once more, slow like he was sipping wine or savoring a piece of cake. He moved on top of her, chest curving to match her almost-sitting position.

She wrapped her arms around his shoulders as he kissed her neck. She bit back a smile as his beard skated over her skin, almost tickling her. Grace ran her hands over his shoulders, exploring each muscle and bone—

Grace frowned at a rough patch of skin, then ran her fingers over it again. She barely registered Chesterfield tense before he had shoved them apart, one hand snatching her wrist while the other pinned her against the wall.

Grace stared at him in the dark, stunned. He was panting, his eyes wild and ringed with an animal madness that usually ended in blood. He hadn't grabbed her throat, though, just her shoulder. That was a good sign, wasn't it?

"Jonathan," she said quietly, hands held up in submission. "Jonathan, calm down. What just happened?"

He shook his head, a tiny gesture that never let him break his gaze. He looked ready to bolt, and the moment he got on his feet was the moment Grace lost control of him.

"Jonathan," she said again, trying to pull her hand free. He tightened his grip, whole body tensing with the motion. Grace considered him, then made a decision.

"If you're going to get out of bed, go. Otherwise, lay back down. The air is freezing."

He stared at her, weighing her words. Was he going to call her bluff? Shit, she had  _not_ expected this but she should have, she should have, she should have, she was a damn fool.

His grip tightened on her wrist and shoulder, making Grace bite back a grimace. Then finally he let go. He was still taut like a dog straining against its rope, but the raw need to battle his way out had left his face.

"You…know what that was, right?" Chesterfield's voice was barely there, almost breaking halfway through.

Grace refused to let herself blink. The feel of his scars haunted her fingertips, especially when she thought she knew where they had come from.

"Your father…" she began, then pressed her lips tight.

"I—I didn't think—no one's ever know what they were before," he said awkwardly. The fight petered out of him bit by bit, leaving a man Grace didn't quite recognize.

"May I see it?"

His eyes flicked back to her face, his wariness and mistrust palpable even in the quarter light.

The last time they had been naked, it was Chesterfield that had seen too much, catching her confusion and fear and anger and lust. Now it was Grace's turn, and all she could see was how wounded the man before her was.

Grace thought that he wouldn't respond, and then she would have to find some other path out of this. And then Chesterfield turned, jerkily, uncertainly, twisting just enough for the scars on his back to be exposed.

It cut Grace's breath from her chest. The scars were angry, even for their age, puckered and raised from the hot iron his father had used. The marks were uneven, like Chesterfield had flinched from the pain of it, making the iron touch him again. What sickened her the most was the third burn slashing its way through the other two, like his father had figured he'd top them off.

Grace raised her hand and traced the barest edge of his scar, then pulled back when she felt him flinch. She gently turned him back around with the lightest touch of her fingertips.

He eyed her, still uneasy. Grace just looked into his face, insides twisting. She hadn't thought his story true, never mind so horrific.

Her gaze dropped to the scar cutting across his collarbone. She had noticed it earlier, but thought nothing of it. Now he seemed to be nothing but a collection of scars, never mind how fit and healthy the rest of his body was. Grace touched it for only have a second, then pulled back. He hadn't given her permission for that one.

"Come, lay back down," she murmured.

He hesitated again, clearly not sure whether this was a trick. But Grace just offered him a small smile.

"You must be tired," she whispered. "Here, sleep. We have time enough. It's alright, Jonathan. We have time."

He let her guide him back down, settling his body against hers. Grace stroked slow, easy patterns across his shoulder blades, breathing slow as she waited for his pulse to steady.

Eventually, Jonathan wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. Grace pressed a kiss into his hair and closed her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all I can say about that chair scene is that it's historically accurate and if knowing about the period appropriate absence of underwear isn't a good use of a history degree, I don't know what is ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	3. chapter three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love canon and the way it just *clenches fist* annihilates me.

Grace and Jonathan found a wonderful sort of middle ground that made their lives terribly easy. When a set of cutthroats swaggered through the Alehouse, Grace told Jonathan and they were scooped up by sunset. Jonathan shifted and reordered a few trade policies that coincidentally made traders far more likely to sell Grace their goods. She kept the Ale, Jonathan kept Fort James, and once or twice a week they found themselves in the same bed.

It was always Jonathan's, of course. Grace quite liked the idea of him waiting restlessly by the window, never sure if that night would be the night she appeared. And she didn't want him making any sort of claim to her space or her things. He could sweep into the back of the Alehouse on his own or come after hours, but that was about all the position of husband granted him.

Though, to be fair, he was making full use of that freedom.

Jonathan had Grace up on a table in the back, her legs tucked around his waist. Both their clothes were still on, though he had shucked his cloak and suit jacket, while Grace had lost her duster somewhere along the way.

Jonathan had kept his hands in only polite places, like her sides or back, but he was making up for it by working a love bite into her collarbone. Grace would have thought she hated it— _he's marking you he's marking you as his stop don't let him—_ but she figured she'd left more than enough marks of her own behind. He was allowed this.

"Any word on buyers for our furs," he mumbled, kissing up her throat to find her mouth again.

"Don't tell me I'm not distraction enough for you," she scoffed.

Jonathan kissed her once, twice, then leaned back. He settled his hands on her hips and shrugged.

"You told me I should keep my focus."

Grace rolled her eyes. She was really starting to wish he was less attentive to what she said. Then again, he'd be useless to her if he were stupid.

"It's going slow," she admitted. "After the nightmare with Samuel Grant, I want to know  _exactly_ who we're getting into bed with."

"Remind me again what he did that's so pissed you off," Jonathan said, so, so casual in his delivery.

Samuel Grant had double crossed Declan and set them all down this road to perdition, but, of course, Grace couldn't tell Jonathan that. He purred and laid so quietly in her lap now, but any mention of Declan Harp usually went with a big show of teeth.

"I don't trust him," Grace said. "He's smart, but he has no morals."

"And what about us?" Jonathan murmured, kissing her again.

Grace bit back a smile. "The whole world can't lose its head."

Jonathan made a sound that Grace wasn't sure if it was a chuckle or a growl. He'd found her pulse point and was trailing his tongue across it.

"And—anyway," she breathed—one of his hands was on her thigh, now, easing higher and higher— "Things are—things are messy in Montreal, and I don't—I don't want to invite more trouble."

Jonathan had followed the vein down her neck and was now fiddling with the buttons of her vest. She huffed out a shaky breath, keenly aware of how hard Jonathan was already.

"You'll manage it," he whispered, the words spreading across her skin faster than any of his kisses. "You could topple empires, if you wanted."

Grace put her hands against his face and made him look up at her. His pupils were blown and he had this half-lidded, filthy look that said he wouldn't mind tearing her clothes off with his teeth and fucking her on this table right now.

"I will," she told him. "But not without you."

Jonathan pushed her back on the table and kissed along her neckline, teasingly low on her breast. She bit her lip, trying to maintain sight of reason—this was her kitchen table, Imogen and Mary were both there, they could  _not_  do this now—

Grace was saved from testing her self-restraint by Mary coming down the stairs.

"Miss Emberly?" she called.

"Send her away," Jonathan growled.

"No, it could be important."

" _Grace—_ "

Grace pushed him off and sat upright. Jonathan grit out a curse and ran a hand through his hair.

"Miss Emberly, are you down here?"

"Ah, yes, Mary, one moment."

Grace slid off the table and frantically buttoned her shirt—ugh, too many were undone, she'd have to settle for skipping some—then walked to the curtain separating the rooms. She nearly ran into Mary in the doorway, who first looked startled and then alarmed. Grace glanced back at Jonathan who was visible form the doorway, then waved Mary on.

"Come on, step aside, Mary. What is it you wanted?"

"I—oh, I was just going to tell you that I think Mr. Heinrich stole his wash pitcher. That or he broke it." Mary couldn't make it three words without shooting Jonathan wary looks.

"It's a fucking  _pitcher,_  surely you can buy another," Jonathan said, coming to a halt behind Grace. Clearly, he was still annoyed at the interruption. Mary's eyes flicked to him again, but she didn't answer.

"It's the principle of the thing," Grace told him. "If he'll breaks a pitcher and says nothing, he might do more. Have you found anything that might be pieces of it?"

"No, ma'am, it was just missing when I cleaned his room. I didn't want to raise a fuss by asking him directly."

"Fair enough. I'll deal with it tomorrow. Anything else?"

"No, ma'am."

"Very well, good night."

Mary nodded, then warily backed to the stairs. She cast Grace and Jonathan one last look and disappeared.

"I'm surprised you didn't offer to raid his room right now," Grace said, turning back to him.

"What, and upset my men by hauling them out of their beds for a pitcher?" Jonathan scoffed and leaned against a table. "They're supposed to like me better than Benton, not see me as another twat to overthrow."

"I didn't realize this was such a popularity contest."

"If I give them enough food, let them stay where it's warm, and treat them like people rather than dogs, they'll face even Declan Harp for me."

"Would they." Grace turned away to clean an imaginary something on the counter.

That was one sticky point in all this convenience. Jonathan was mentioning Declan more and more, and she had the terrible suspicion it was to see how she'd respond.

"I didn't become a captain for nothing," Jonathan said, catching her arm and pulling her back. She turned as he wanted, but went one too many times so her back was to his front. He clicked his tongue but didn't seem to mind much, as he wrapped his arms around her.

"What, you dazzled your underlings until they hounded everyone for your promotion?" she asked. Grace tried for a tone of cool indifference, but her pulse tripped a little faster with his breath on her neck. She still felt a little flushed.

"I licked the boots of every soft-hearted bastard that might give me an advance. And stepped on anyone that tried to get ahead of me, but no one ever saw that."

"And you found Lord Benton…how, exactly?"

"He found me, Devil by the wayside," Jonathan grumbled. "But enough of that."

He kissed her ear, and Grace raised a hand to settle at the back of his head. She waited until he'd moved his hands to her hips, then turned and smoothly stepped out of reach.

"Sorry, Lord Governor," she said, gesturing to the door. "But the inn is closed."

"And you don't have  _one_ room open?" he asked, smiling comfortably from where he still leaned against the table. Grace was almost starting to think she was predictable.

"Not a one."

"Shame." He stood upright and adjusted his vest. "Pretty soon, you'll appreciate the fact that there's always one in the governor's house."

"Oh, I appreciate it now. I just don't have a need for a second bed, at the moment."

Jonathan clicked his tongue in an almost laugh, then went to the back room to fetch his cloak. "But you'll come for dinner tomorrow?" he asked.

"Aye, Jonathan, I'll come for dinner tomorrow."

He walked back into the main room. Grace caught his arm, making him pause and turn back to her. He hadn't fully turned around when she ran her finger over his mouth. Jonathan barely had time to look startled before she had put the pad of her finger to her tongue.

"I look forward to it," she told him.

Jonathan hesitated, clearly torn between going like he had been told and tossing her onto the table to finish what Mary had interrupted. Grace met his gaze and raised an eyebrow.

"I think your bed is waiting for you. Best not keep it much longer."

He blinked, eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly, then pulled on his cloak. Grace smothered a smile as she watched him slink to the door and close it behind him.

* * *

Grace didn't stay long, all things considered. She had dinner, she had sex, she had a decent night's sleep, and she had a quick retreat. Granted, she never stayed for breakfast, but those few hours were a pittance, considering she s _hould_ have been in the governor's house all day.

But there was work, always work. She put the righteous fear of God in Heinrich (he had broken the pitcher, after all, and oh so kindly offered to replace it), tidied her inventory, settled a fight between two drunkards, helped Mary with the day's baking, collected a bit more gossip about the trade war in Montreal, and rounded up the old linens for washing. She could only pray Jonathan's day was half so productive, now that he wasn't running around the woods and sneaking past Benton. She honestly couldn't imagine how powerful men stayed busy when there were people like her running things for them.

Grace was just coming down the stairs of the Ale when she heard Mary's voice snap across the room.

"I don't want to hear it, Imogen!"

"All I'm saying, is, she's got the right idea."

Grace would have gone down to settle the dispute and help them finish cleaning up for the day, but then she heard her name.

"Grace couldn't get him by appealing to his head, so why not rule him from between his legs? It's what I'd do."

"I'm sure you would," Mary muttered. The sound of stacking dirty plates failed to cover her barely suppressed disgust.

"What I find rich is that she told me not to do that exact thing," Imogen sniffed. Grace couldn't see her, but she could just imagine the self-righteous head tilt as Imogen tidied the counter.

"She told you this wasn't a brothel," Mary corrected her.

"She said not to sell myself. And what's she done? Sold herself to the strongest man in Fort James. Smart, but still makes her a hypocrite."

"I didn't tell you so you could criticize Grace," Mary snapped again. "I just—he's—I don't get why  _Chesterfield,_ of all people."

Grace closed her eyes and climbed back up the stairs. She redescended, making her steps loud enough to not hear anything else Mary said.

"Imogen," she called. The conversation stopped as they both turned toward her like startled deer. "Sanders has vomited in the hall again. I need you to help me clean it up. He's officially off the spirits list. He gets nothing stronger than ale, I'm not doing this a third time."

Imogen wrinkled her nose, but went to fetch a bucket.

"Mary," Grace said. She pretended not to notice how the girl jumped. "You take care of the front room yes? I know I promised no more late nights, but I swear you get the whole morning to yourself."

Mary nodded and wrung out a smile. There was still a pinch between her pale eyebrows, though, and she opened her mouth. But then Imogen had returned with a bucket of water and she though better of it.

"That's fine. Have a good night, Grace."

Grace lingered a moment before walked back toward the stairs.

_Smart, but still makes her a hypocrite._

That wasn't the worst Grace had been called, but it certainly stung more than its share.

* * *

Grace wasn't overly surprised when she heard the soft knock on her door. She sighed and looked at the door. She was tired and didn't want whatever would come through, but she answered anyways.

"Come in."

Mary cracked the door just enough to peep through, hesitating like Grace might change her mind. When she saw Grace continuing to get ready for bed, she stepped through and closed the door.

"I didn't want to disturb," she murmured.

"Oh, you didn't disturb me," Grace said with a smile. She pulled her hair down and tousled it with her fingers. It had been a miserable time cleaning up the vomit in the hall, in no small part because she had felt Imogen's words cutting into her skin every time the girl came close. But Imogen had smiled pleasantly enough at the end, like she had said nothing at all. Grace wasn't the only that lied. She was a fool to forget it.

Mary hovered by the bed, wrapped tight in her shawl. Grace hesitated as she lifted a brush to her hair, then put her hands on her hips.

"Come on, then, what did you come to say?" she asked.

Mary frowned at the floor, swallowing like the words she wanted to say tasted bad. "I—I wanted to speak to you about some concerns I have."

"Alright, well." Grace gestured with the brush for her to go ahead.

"It's just—Grace, I can't help but worry about you and—" She pursed her lips and tried again. "I'm worried about you with Captain Chesterfield."

"Oh, I see," she said, looking down. Somehow, Grace felt a little surprised Mary hadn't mentioned Imogen. But that was just her emotions getting in the way. She really needed to watch herself, she was getting more sentimental all the time.

Grace shook her head. "Well, I'm fine, as you can see. He's nothing I can't handle."

"I know, but—don't forget what he is, what he's done." Mary stepped closer, blue eyes wide and afraid. "He puts my teeth on edge, Grace. He is a  _wild man_. Please don't forget that."

"We're all wild men here, Mary. There's no one who'd choose to come here, otherwise." Grace sat on her bed and gestured for Mary to join her. She didn't like the piteous reproach in Mary's eyes, but she understood it so, so well. How was she to know that Grace had tamed Jonathan so perfectly well? How could she see that a few drops of kindness had triumphed over the animal inside him?

"Captain Chesterfield…he's a means to an end," Grace told her. "Through him, I got rid of Benton. The fort's free of murdering marauders, and now I can actually afford to think about something other than just  _surviving._  He's a means to an end."

"But at what  _cost_?" Mar insisted. She put her hand over Grace's and squeezed. "It doesn't cost him  _anything_ to do this. But what about you? I see you leave at night and I can't sleep because I know you're going to  _him_ and I just—" Mary broke off, shaking her head.

"Afraid of what, Mary?"

"I'm afraid that one morning you won't come back, and it makes me sick. The thought of what he could do to you makes me sick."

Grace's eyes fluttered, shocked at the misery twisting Mary's sweet face. She had comfortably forgotten the man Chesterfield had been—or was—or was hiding—the one that had gutted Cedric and threatened her when things went wrong. Then again, it was no surprise that Mary of all people would remember.

Mary was only at the Alehouse because her brother had spirited her away to Fort James in the middle of the night. They had thought themselves safe when their violent father had died during a harsh winter, but then the American War for Independence had gobbled up Mary's brother, even though he had never taken a side. If Grace went, if she was stolen away by a man as wicked as Mary's father had been….Grace couldn't imagine what the girl would have left.

"Like I said," Grace repeated, clearing her throat. "We're all wild men here. Except you, maybe." She put a hand on Mary's shoulder, but Mary just gave her a look.

"I know it's not my business, but just...please don't entertain him here," she said after a long moment.

Grace set her shoulders. The privacy of the back room seemed suddenly far more dubious than she had thought. Not to mention she was suddenly grossly aware that all of Fort James knew she was fucking Jonathan Chesterfield. Which of course went with being his wife, but still. It had always felt so private and secret but now it seemed so terribly obvious.

"I can't stop him from coming, but I promise to be more discreet," Grace said, hoping her flush was hidden in the glow of the fire.

Mary didn't look reassured, but she finally nodded. "Thank you, Grace," she murmured. "I know you didn't want this. I just…"

"You don't have to explain yourself to me," Grace said, wringing out another smile. "You should sleep, though. It's been a long night."

Mary stood, tucking the shawl tighter around her.

"Oh, and Mary?"

"Yes, Grace?"

"I'd appreciate it if you could help cut the idle chatter about us. People do love a gossip."

Grace couldn't tell if she had imagined the guilty flicker in Mary's eyes, but she nodded again.

"Of course, Grace. Good night."

"Good night, Mary."

Grace finished getting ready to sleep. Her bed seemed strangely big, full of all the room she wasn't used to having. It felt colder, too, knowing that at least one person watched her with the expectation that she might die by Jonathan's hand.

* * *

The walk to the governor's house had become as familiar as the halls of the Ale. Grace noticed the tracks of rabbits or squirrels in the snow, the muddy ruts in the ice, the length of the icicles on the trees and houses. She wondered what it all would look like when the ice melted and she was confronted with the warm light of day.

The soldiers at the door nodded as she approached. At first they had been uncomfortable whenever she came to the house, offering stiff greetings or bawdy snickers when turned her back. Then the men had realized that she still controlled their food and drink. And she mellowed Jonathan, a point she had made early with casual hopes that they enjoyed the increased rations she had suggested.

She murmured a greeting and hurried inside. It had been late when she left the Alehouse, and the walk had only seemed to make her cold as well as tired.

None of the servants were about as she wandered through the lower floor. She pulled off her coat and draped it over its usual chair in the parlor.

"Grace?"

She turned to see Jonathan standing in the doorway. He watched her uncertainly, like he didn't know what she was about to do.

"Yes?" she asked, putting her hands on her hips.

"Is something wrong?" he asked.

"Other than I'm starving and it's cold as sin out there, no." She walked toward him, but he didn't move. "You look like you're seen the dead, Jonathan."

"I just…didn't expect you to come. We didn't agree on it, did we?"

Grace paused before him. She hadn't missed the fact that this was the first time she had come to the house without an established reason. All the other times he had had to convince her first. Grace honestly didn't see why that meant she had to be questioned about it. She  _chose_  to come, just like she did every other time. This whole affair was nothing but her choice.

"No," she said, walking past him. "I was just tired of the noise and bustle of the Ale. Is there anything left in the pantry I can have? I don't think I've eaten since lunch."

Jonathan followed her into the kitchen. They scrounged up something close to a meal, and she ate sitting on the edge of the table.

"You're up late," she observed around amount full of cheese.

"Damn ledger's driving me mad," he grunted. "The HBC's the most powerful entity out here, and yet we're being bled by all these damn independent traders. Soon the blood trail will be long enough to reach London, and  _then_  we'll be in the shit."

"Has Sutherby or any of them said anything about it?"

"They've talked about how I should throw them a party, arrogant cocksuckers."

Grace scoffed out a laugh. "All that money and they can't even afford to host a party of their own. Typical."

Jonathan scoffed and ate a surly bite of bread. Grace considered him. She didn't particularly want the HBC to strengthen its stranglehold over the north, but she wanted Jonathan to win. She wanted to be the reason he won.

She kicked her foot out to get his attention.

"What are you plans for solidifying your hold out here? Not something extreme, I hope. It's only just started to calm down out here."

 _"Calm_ ," he scoffed. "I don't know if this fucking place knows the difference."

"Oh, it was quite civil before you came."

"Before  _Benton_  came with his stupid vendetta," he corrected. Jonathan rubbed his eyes with his fingers and sighed. "Of course, even after the arrogant prick's been carted off to rot, I've still got to clean up his mess."

Grace sipped a bit of her tea, cradling the cup in an attempt to warm her fingers. Benton had always struck her as terribly effective, but now that he was gone she couldn't help but notice how much smoother things had gone. Not just for herself, but for all of Fort James. Those that fought for power seemed to be far more successful than those carelessly born to it.

"I don't know how to stop the damn independents without starting another war," Jonathan confessed. He looked at her frankly, arms folded across his chest. "I could ask for a ship full of soldiers to decimate everyone that crosses me come spring, but it sends a message that the Lakewalkers won't like. The people in Montreal don't care for the laws of the HBC, but if I burn them to the ground, there will be plenty of magistrates and corrupt nobles looking for my head. Not to mention we won't have any buyers for our own endeavors."  
Grace raised her eyebrows. She hadn't expected such a display of weakness, nor such a canny summary of the situation.

She finished her piece of bread, then gestured for Jonathan to bring the loaf back. He crossed to her and cut a thick slice.

"Don't tell me that cunning mind of yours has stopped now," he told her, his hip brushing against her knees.

"I'm just trying to think of a solution," she said. "Harp is successful with the Lakewalkers because he's part Cree, but there has to be something you can do. There has to be  _someone_ else they trade with." She gave Jonathan a casual glance as she spoke. He had lifted his chin at the mention of Declan, but he looked calm enough.

Grace tilted her head, allowing her thoughts to move on. "If nothing else, we could poison that relationship and place ourselves as the alternative."

Jonathan surprised her by laughing.

"What?" she demanded.

"That's the exact plan Benton had when he first came," he told her.

Grace watched him for a moment. "Did….it work?"

Jonathan gave her a look and reached around her for the cup of tea. "You tell me," he said, taking a drink.

Grace rolled her eyes and took the cup back . "That's because Lord Benton has all the subtlety of a  _pick axe_. I, on the other hand, am much more delicate."

"And this is your job now?" he asked, leaning against the table.

"You came to  _me,_  remember?"

"Oh, I remember you coming to this house, asking for food."

"Don't make it sound like I'm a stray dog," she grumbled.

"You're much too lovely for that," he murmured, then kissed her neck.

Grace bit down a shiver as he put his hand on her hip. Even now, she still shivered whenever he laid hand on her skin. There was something in her that was always so shocked and uncertain whenever she was touched, doubting if it was fine like she told herself it was.

Jonathan kissed her mouth, and it tasted of tea and cunning. She had written him off as a tool, once, a work animal she could point in a direction to clear the path for her to walk down later. But now it was so deliciously apparent that he was more. He could put the world on a platter for her, and the simple fact that he  _would_ thrilled her.

Jonathan pushed her legs apart and kissed her head on. Her hands were in his hair and he had her lower lip between his teeth. The first little touch may have caught her off guard but this had all become so familiar and thrilling and Grace would so happily trade—

_It doesn't cost him anything to do this, but what about you?_

Grace startled, breaking the kiss.

"What?" Jonathan asked, breath coming in unsteady puffs.

"I—not on the table," she muttered, shaking her head.

"You were fine the other day—"

"Because it was  _mine_ and I knew no one had slaughtered rabbit on it."

"Then come off," he said, pulling her toward the edge.

She grimaced and smacked his chest. "No, this is a bad idea. The cook is  _right_ next door."

" _So?_  It's our house, Grace. He's being paid well enough to listen to us."

Grace gave him a look, making him break into laughter again. He leaned forward, kisses and laughter tumbling across her neck.

" _Well,_ our cook has a taste of spirits. I don't need him airing our exploits to the world the next time I have to cut him off."

Jonathan rolled his head on her shoulder so they were looking at each other. He was still wearing a smile, but it was tinged with something more considerate than before.

"Things really have changed," he murmured. "My sister had to worry about hands going up her skirt when she worked in a lord's house. Cook's doing fine if he just has worry about not getting his brandy."

Grace blinked, stared at him, then blinked again.

"You have a sister?"

"Yes." He straightened and looked at her. A wary little something hid in his face, but he shook his head as though to clear it away. "I have three. One's married, one's engaged working as a maid, and the other's apprenticed to a tailor. Not much room for daughters in a butcher's house. Nor a son, to think of it."

Grace considered. She'd never heard him speak of his family outside of that single, monstrous tale of his father. Men like Jonathan seemed to be forged from the streets of London itself—hardy, brutal, and with no sentimental value for blood

They watched each other for a long moment before Grace managed to find a reasonable question.

"Did they…did you tell them you'd been married?"

"No," he murmured. "Did you tell your father?"

"No." Grace almost laughed as she said it, because she wouldn't have wanted him to know even if he had been alive. She didn't want her father to see his little Gracie grow up to be matched with a man of violence and cunning, nor did she wanted Jonathan to know she'd been raised by a man of ruthlessness and artifice.

But Jonathan's face was thoughtful in that somber way she was coming to know.

"We're beyond them, now, aren't we?" he asked.

Grace looked up and met his eyes. There was the truth again, tapping at the window and spilling over their lips and laying itself out for frank inspection.

This was what Jonathan gave, just as much as her; the truth of himself, wholly, completely, shamelessly. They were matched in their wants and wicked deeds, and how very much they were frightened by what they really were.

Grace slid off the table and led Jonathan upstairs.

The fireplace burned low in the bedroom. There was just enough light to see the edges of Jonathan: his shoulder, his hands, his cheek. Grace waited until he had closed the door to pull him closer, just the suggestion of a touch, really. His hands were soft in the dark, finding her face, finding her hip, just enough to let her know he adored every inch of her.

Jonathan pulled her hair free of its tie, his hand slowly easing up to hold her head against his. Grace focused on his clothes, carefully undoing each button his best, pulling free his shirt from his trousers. He paused to look at her after she pulled his shirt over his head, head tilting slightly. His fingers traced the laces of her own vest, the neck line of her shirt, the seam of her shoulder.

His eyes roamed her face, taking in all that she chose not to hide.

This time, when he kissed her, it felt like he was confessing something.

They kissed slowly, hands reveling in each other. He walked her back to the bed, picking free her vest and shirt. Jonathan made her sit, then got on his knees and carefully, carefully removed her boots. She held back a nervous titter as he pulled off her socks. The way he moved, she might have thought they were made of the finest silk rather than tired wool.

Jonathan kissed her knee, a brush of a thing, then pushed himself up to kiss her mouth. He paused just long enough to rid her of her shirt, the cold air making Grace suck in a quick breath. But there was Jonathan, his skin hot against hers, the one constant she had come to expect in this nightmare of a world. Grace let him kiss her once, twice, then once more before she gently pushed him to the side. He settled back so that he was sitting against the pillows, hands ready to pull her toward him. Grace kissed his mouth, his collarbone, his breast bone, his stomach, then she eased off his boots and then his trousers.

Grace kissed his mouth again, and this time he caught her and kept her there.

"You never answered my question," he murmured in between kisses.

"About the trade? I gave you plenty of options."  
He ran his hand down her back, thumb tracing her spine. Grace shuddered, hands bracing against his shoulders.

"What would  _you_ have me do, Grace?" he asked, then again, quieter. "What would you have me do?"

She tried kissing him, but he didn't quite let their lips touch. He slipped her britches down off her hips, past her thighs, then her knees, then finally her feet. Grace straddled him, tried to kiss him again.

"That's not an answer," he reminded her, then kissed her throat.

Grace struggled not to smile, fingers locking in his hair.

"Charm them," she finally managed. "Woo them as you did Lord Sutherby. Make them want to work with you, with the HBC."

"That's all?" The words were muted against her skin.

"Of course not." She rolled her hips against his, making him groan. "If they refuse, burn them to the ground. Make yourself the best ally, but also the most terrible foe."

Jonathan grunted, though whether in agreement or instruction, she couldn't tell. He pulled her down onto him, making her breath catch. Their faces were close, mouths open, almost saying something, almost bridging the gap between bedroom and battle plans.

They were two elements caught together, a waterfall that was equal parts air and water. Both were powerful on their own, but together they were devastating.

It wasn't love. Whatever they had wasn't love. Grace wasn't even certain how it ever  _could_ be, but it worked. It was wonderful and terrible and it  _worked_.

They lay beside each other in the dark. Only the merest edge of Jonathan's claws glinted in the dark, dangerous to all but herself.

"You make it all sound so easy," he murmured.

Grace considered, tracing his collarbone with her finger.

"It won't be, though I know you can do it. But you must make sure that no matter what, you have their respect. It trades much farther out here than money or fur."

Jonathan was silent for a moment, then he settled his hand over hers.

"I know I can do it," he whispered, "because I have you."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, like, are my tiger metaphors subtle enough yet?


	4. chapter four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the good news is that there's a lot more than I expected to Grace and Jonathan's story. The bad news is oh geez there's a lot more than I expected to Grace and Jonathan's story.

Grace let herself into the governor's house. It had taken her a little while to find the golden time between the maid turning in for the night and the tavern emptying enough for her to slip away. Today she had whittled away the time, each second grating at her skin until she could escape the noise and the attention and the ever-present need to be strong and pleasant and firm and  _Grace._

She climbed the steps, moving on habit more than anything. There were whole rooms of the house she hadn't been in, but that didn't bother her much. Grace had never cared for the grandeur of the building she stayed in, but rather the secrecy, the security.

She called out for Jonathan from the hall, making him barely glance at her when she stepped into the room. He was in the middle of dressing down for the night, his vest hanging loose so that his shirt could reveal the curve of his collarbones.

"Grace. Just here to visit?" He sat on the bed and began taking off his boots.

"We've a couple of guests that don't know how to sleep," she explained, the words easy like lies always were. She stepped forward to lean against the bedpost. She made sure her face was its usual perfect mask of indifference. "I'd normally tell them to stuff it or find a new place to stay, but they're not  _really_ doing anything wrong. Plus, they pay very well."

"Let me guess," he said, lip curling. "They're French."

"Something like that."

Jonathan rolled his eyes and grit out a curse. "I hate that they come to the fort. I can't do anything to them or I'd risk sparking a bloody war, but they're bleeding the fur trade dry and they know it."

"They're ticks on the back of a bear," she said, waving a hand. She stepped around so that she was between his knees and helped ease the shirt over his head. He looked up at her, considering.

"I don't know how to wrangle them all," he said, hands settling on her hips. "Every time our men go out to look for them, they just disappear west or north because  _somehow_ they've made friends with the bloody natives, while we're left begging for scraps from the Lakewalkers. We're bloody lucky if we trip over the French in the dark."

"Then set a trap for them."

Grace could feel the bands loosening from around her chest the more they spoke. This was fine, this was what she was good at—scheming and planning and letting Jonathan look at her like she was something glorious and terrible.

She watched him, thumb tracing the edge of his collarbone. "Get someone in Montreal to act as a go between. Lure them in and then take their pelts."

"Or their heads, if they don't do as we say."

"Devil's bargain," she said, smiling.

Jonathan cocked his head, the considerate look still on his face.

"I have a bath waiting in the next room," he told her, tipping his chin at the disused study next door. "Care to join?"

Grace hesitated. Of course, it would be so easy to forget everything with Jonathan's skin against hers, his mouth and hands roaming where once they had not been allowed. But then she'd be stuck there, in this house, doomed to lie next to him for hours. And normally that was fine, except she was already in danger of letting all her hurt burst through her lips and admit that she was  _not_  glorious and terrible, she was ripped and mangled and so full of blood on the inside that she thought she might choke.

"How much of this bath would be bathing?"

He gave a little smirk that almost hid how tired he was. Grace frowned ever so slightly. She hadn't noticed his exhaustion before, even though it had surely been days in the making. She took hold of his chin, turning his face this way and that to study him further.

"You look tired," she murmured.

He shook his head free, scowling. "Don't start mothering me, Grace."

"All I'm saying is I wouldn't appreciate you falling asleep on top of me."

He gave her a look, hands sliding from her hips to her knees. "Are you coming, then?"

She worked her jaw, looked around the room. "How warm is it?"

"Plenty. Steaming just a moment ago."

Grace clicked her tongue. That wasn't hard in this brutal cold. But for as much as she feared the danger of showing her weakness, she also liked the idea of just…letting him hold her.

"Will you mind yourself?" she asked.

Jonathan rolled his eyes again but nodded. Grace sighed to herself, giving in.

"Alright. But if you get my hair wet, I'll smother you when you fall asleep."

"I'll be careful," he promised. He was already pulling off her duster.

The water was, as promised, plenty warm. Grace sucked in a breath as she stepped in, then breathed through clenched teeth as she slowly sat down. Jonathan waited until she was settled, then carefully sat in front of her. The tub was barely big enough for the both of them, Grace's thighs pressing tight between his sides and the tub itself. Water sloshed dangerously close to the edge as they adjusted, but then slowly calmed.

"Not much room to stretch out," she noted.

"We can do that in bed," he murmured back. Jonathan settled his hands on her knees like they were the arms of a chair.

It was ridiculous, but feeling him touch her underneath the water sent a tingle up her back. Jonathan had managed to sneak a few kisses as she undressed and tied up her hair, including one on her spine. The place he had kissed still held the memory of his breath, hotter than the bathwater around them. Grace huffed out a breath of her own, because  _honestly._  He had touched her so much by now that she should be used to it. After all, they were sitting naked together in a bath tub.

Slowly, like he was easing himself down from a great height, Jonathan leaned his head back onto her shoulder. Grace looked at him, but his eyes had slid shut.

"It's been a long day," he murmured. He didn't try to hide his exhaustion now, the tension that kept him upright and in control seeping away with the steam. Jonathan traced small circles into the sides of her knees with his thumb. "I didn't think it would be so draining to just…fix everything."

It didn't help that he was wading through the negligence of two different predecessors, but Grace got the impression that he didn't want another diatribe against Benton and Threadwell. His face was peacefully still as he tilted his nose toward her neck.

She laced her fingers over his stomach. She didn't have any space inside her for sweet words, so she just held him and prayed that he wasn't in a mood for conversation.

He mumbled something she didn't quite catch.

"Mm?"

"I said, I could never imagine you relaxing, before. Even after seeing you asleep, it's hard to think of you just  _resting._ "

Grace couldn't help but think the same about him. Jonathan Chesterfield was a man of might and mayhem—action curled around his fists and waited to be loosed. But over the last few weeks, she had seen him be so human it baffled her: resting and happy, hungry and content, trusting and so very, very helpless.

"That's because there's too much work to do," Grace said.

"It's always the next move with you, never looking back, never resting on what you have."

"What good would that do?"

She bit her cheek at the chill in her voice. He didn't know, he didn't know what he had brushed against, it was fine, she was  _fine,_  she just had to wrestle him onto another subject.

Grace hoped she would not regret agreeing to the bath. There was no place to run and far too much time to talk about important things.

"There's always more to do," she continued, making her voice softer, more alluring. Even if he wouldn't distract her, she could still use him for her own ends.

"I can find pleasure in what I have." Jonathan put a hand on the back of her head and stretched just enough to kiss her jaw. "In a few months, I've gotten everything I've asked for."

"That's true," Grace conceded. "I have to admit, you've done well since you were made governor. Even with all the disadvantages you've faced, Fort James has flourished. Trade is good, there are no more crimes, not big ones, at least, and justice is met quickly."

"That's the glory of living in the army," he grunted. Grace bit back a grimace at his resistance to being praised into obedience. "Strict, straightforward, hard to argue with. People always like a firm hand to guide them through."

"Yes, but I wouldn't get caught up in the creature comforts. Look at Threadwell," she reminded him. "Keep moving forward. It might be a good idea to find someone to help you, for example."

"Help me do what?"

"Take care of all the tedious fixing you don't like. That way you can spend more time finding all that pleasure you mentioned."

"And who'd be my right hand?" he asked, an almost laugh in his voice. "Van Stone? He's loyal enough, but one drop of power and he turns into a drunkard. Look at how much weight he's been throwing around since I placed him in charge of the artillery drills. Thinks they're worthless and yet he's bragging about it to get any girl into bed with him."

 _That's why you should choose me,_  she thought, but she didn't think he was ready for such a leap just yet. She'd have to do a bit more tinkering, make him just a bit more biddable, center him a little more in her hand.

"No, not him," she agreed. "But it can't hurt to look."

Grace traced a line from his navel to his breast bone and back down. Did he even realize the danger she posed to him? Did he even know, did it even  _register_  in his mind that she had placed a collar around his neck, that the nail that so carefully skimmed his skin was a talon that could slit him open?

Of course, the one thing she couldn't shackle was his temper. Granted, Jonathan had been a model citizen of late, but Grace was too wise to think his bloodstained manners had disappeared, no matter his pretty words to the contrary.

"Grace?"

"Hm?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

He slipped his hand beneath the water and placed it over hers. With a surprised blink, she realized she had been thrumming her fingers on his stomach.

'Tell me your thoughts," he whispered to her, lips almost touching her neck.

Grace almost laughed, because she had come here to  _stop_  having thoughts, futile as it was proving. Just her luck to pick the night when he was exhausted and wanted to chat.

"It's just…" She looked up, considering. She could settle for an easy, simple topic, or she could take a risk and seek the reward of cutting a new swathe in the man before her. "What…what's going to happen when trouble arises? Come summer, the price of pelts will drop, new settlers will come, debts with be due…"

"And we'll deal with them like all else."

"And you're sure your temper won't get in the way?"

"My  _temper_  isn—"

"Jonathan," she said. Grace didn't have to look far for the damage his temper wrought. When she closed her eyes, Cedric Brown rose to mind.

He was silent for a terribly long moment.

"I fully intend," he said quietly, "to be a different kind of man"

"Yes, yes, I know. And I can see the progress," she said, feeling his hackle raise at the thought of her brushing him off. "But…the fact remains. You're very quick to violence."

"This place is built on violence.  _You_ weren't above violence, not so long ago."

Grace hummed in response, again running her finger along the unseen line from his navel to his breastbone to the joint of his collarbones. She could feel his body ever so slightly tense, his shoulder blades slowly drawing together.

"Jonathan."

 _"What_?"

"I am asking for your sake, not to undermine you. People have forgotten it now, because you treat them right. But if you spill any blood in future, they'll remember all you've done before."

Benton was savage as a mountain cat, ripping out the innards of his prey while it still breathed. Fear had lent him his throne for a short while, but cunning would always dismantle the brutal and reckless. Grace refused to let herself go the same way because Jonathan did not want to change.

"That wasn't my choice," he growled. Although Jonathan clearly didn't enjoy the conversation, the hostility had bled from him. He slumped against Grace, head ducked against her words.

She couldn't help the petty thrill of victory as she plucked out his claws one by one.

"Jonathan. You killed Cedric Brown in a fit of anger."

Grace couldn't help but recognize the absurdity of the moment, even as she said the words. She had watched Jonathan brutally murder a man and show no remorse, and yet there she was, sitting in a bath with him, her legs wrapped around his waist because…?

Because she was just as terrible. Because she enjoyed putting a monster in chains and proving she was stronger than all the weapons they laid against her. Because her father had raised her to be that way, had pruned her with neglect until her shape was crooked and bent and hateful.

Her breath caught as she finally tripped onto the subject of her father. She clenched her teeth and focused.

"Benton ordered me to kill him, one way or another," Jonathan said unexpectedly, so quietly she might have mistaken the meaning for something else. "He was sending a message to any trader that undercut the HBC, and with Brown…at least I had a reason."

Grace blinked once, twice, utterly unable to draw a breath.

"I…didn't know that," she finally managed.

"You made it seem like you didn't care," he told her, voice accusatory for a moment before he shook it off. "Either way, I'd have left him, but it was my head or his."

So she wasn't as terrible. Jonathan was bad,  _yes,_  but his wickedness was to survive. He didn't crack open someone's chest and play just because he  _could._ She was worse.

"Is that why he chose you?" she asked. "Because he knew that if he ordered you, you would do it?"

Jonathan let out another long, quiet breath. "Yes," he murmured. "He chose me because he knew I wouldn't say no."

Of course that was why Benton had chosen him. He'd done much the same to Declan, had feasted on both men's isolation and ruthlessness until there was nothing left. Except Grace had intervened, keeping both for herself and ensuring Benton saw the inside of a cell.

"Why?" Jonathan asked warily.

"I—nothing, it's nothing. I…feel like I should have known that, is all."

"It's in my blood, I guess," he said with something that almost passed for a dry chuckle. He wasn't as good at sounding like he was fine. "A gift passed down from my father. All my life I've tried to manage it, but…" He shook his head like the reality was too terrible to continue. Grace was suddenly glad they couldn't see each other's face.

"Fathers are gone, but the scars remain," she said, a grim attempt at lightness.

But that was a mistake. Her throat was closing up with all the things she hadn't said and she was so aware of where she was, what she was doing. She could practically feel the burns on Jonathan's shoulder like the skin was still hot enough to wound.

At least he had something tangible he could point to, when asked how he had turned out like this.  _There,_ he could say,  _that is what my father did to me._ Grace, though, she would have to lay open her whole soul to say  _there, that is what my father took from me._

She held her breath, blinking hard. She wouldn't cry, she would be fine, she  _could not cry._ Jonathan had again placed his hand over hers, fingers matching up just so—unity, comfort, safety. He had chosen her—she was fine—had exposed all the ugliest, weakest parts—she was  _fine_ —had never once batted an eye at the worst of her.

 _"_ We're not our scars," he said, the words speaking to cuts and bruises she would never see.

Tears finally fell onto Grace's cheeks, painful and blissful as snow on raw skin.

Jonathan straightened, surprised as the breathy gasp she tried to bite back. Water splashed over the edge of the tub as he looked at her. Grace turned her face away, hand raised like that could hide her crying. The teardrops had fallen fast, already mingling with the bathwater.

"Grace—"

She held a hand up to his mouth, shaky and covered in tears. He waited uncertainly. Grace almost laughed as the words spilled out of her. They were so simple, so disastrously simple.

"Jonathan, I—my father's dead. He's been dead this whole time. He's dead."

He fell terribly still, before, "Say that again."

"My father is dead, he's been dead for years and I haven't told anyone. I lied, Jonathan, I lied, I lied to you. I lied."

She stared at him, naked as always, crying, helpless,  _honest._ Grace could truly not remember the last time she had been this honest. But instead of anger or betrayal or resentment or triumph or disgust, Jonathan just looked at her. He considered her hand, still raised in defense, the way she had pulled her knees up to shield herself from him, the frightened way she stared at him out of the corner of her eye.

"Why did you lie?" he asked.

"Because I was afraid the world would try to steal me away if it knew," she said, matching his quiet tone. But she had been telling the lie for so long now,  _five years,_  it had settled around her like a new cloak. Only she had started thinking lately and thinking about the past only meant feeling and it had gone downhill from there. "I thought it was fine, I thought I was  _okay_  but I—I'm so  _angry_ that he left and did this to me and that I  _miss_  him and I—"

She sucked in an unsteady breath, stopping before she broke into proper sobs.

Jonathan reached a hand from the water. She closed her eyes, not wanting to see what he did next.

He brushed away a tear with a wet thumb. She held her breath, counted until she was lightheaded but could think.

Another wet thumb blotted out a tear, this time on her other cheek. Grace opened her eyes. Jonathan had moved closer, just a little, and was studying her sadness like it was a foreign thing. He took her head in his hands, carefully, carefully, cupping her jaw in his palm, fingers settling against her hair.

Jonathan kissed her, softer than any whispered word. Then he kissed a tear from her face, thumb obliterating the trail of yet another on her cheekbone.

"It's alright," he told her, the words so close to her lips that they might have been her own, except they were steady and sure and she was not, she was not, she was not. "Grace, it doesn't matter, it's alright. Look at me. It's alright."

Grace grabbed him tight, like if she held him close enough she might stop falling apart. She squeezed her eyes shut as she felt his hand on the back of her head, waiting for her pain to flicker out.

Finally, he pulled away.

"Let's finish and get in bed," he murmured. He picked up the washcloth and soap. Grace wiped at her eyes and cleared her throat. His hands were firm as he helped her wash off. They were suited to more than just devastation, it seemed.

Grace wasn't sure how, but Jonathan got her standing. She took the towel from him, feeling the cold and yet not quite understanding it. But she dried off, handed back the towel, and walked back into the bedroom. She unpinned her hair from its knot and shook it out.

Jonathan stepped into the room. She felt him behind her, close enough that the hair on the back of her neck stood on end. He carefully set his hands on her sides, then smoothed them down to her hips.

"Let's go to bed," he murmured.

The bedclothes were cold after the heat of the bath. Grace shivered and clung to Jonathan, seeking out his eternal source of heat. He rested an arm under his head, watching her as he traced her jaw with a finger.

He might have purred, if he didn't so obviously hate seeing her in distress.

"Why don't you move here?" he asked.

Grace closed her eyes. She didn't think she was done crying. Her body might just keep at it, making up for all the years she had bitten her teardrops back.

"Not tonight, Jonathan. Please. I don't want to argue about what bed I sleep in."

"No, this is important," he insisted. But his voice was still soft and he was still tracing patterns on her skin, so she figured it was safe enough to let him continue. "This isn't about where you sleep. This is about where you call home."

She worked her jaw.

"You wouldn't have to walk all this way just to talk," he continued.

"I didn't come to  _talk,_ " she muttered. She had come to avoid looking at the place that screamed of her father. She had come here to forget, and yet somehow, despite her best efforts, remembering was all she seemed able to do.

He let out an exasperated sigh. "What about when—"

But he cut himself off, chewing the words up before they could cause trouble.

Grace cracked an eye. "What about what?"

He looked back at her, weighing his words.

"What about when you're pregnant?"

They stared at each other for a long moment. Normally, this was where she would brush him off, hard words making hard armor making him back away from the tender parts of her. But she had already been cracked open, her armor rendered useless and her softness bleeding all over for him to see. The power-mad devil in her chest whispered what wicked fun it could be to give him this damning truth, and the weeping woman that she had become wondered how comforting it might be for him to know everything.

"I don't want children, Jonathan," she whispered. She could feel tears again, sliding so easily down her face. "I won't stop a babe if it comes, but I won't welcome it, either."

She didn't know how to be a  _mother._  She barely knew how to be a decent person. And clearly,  _clearly_  she had no idea what a good parent did, as hers had dragged her over oceans and through thorns and finally gifted her with the friendly news that he had died.

Jonathan was silent for a long, long time. He probably thought less of her, now. He had told her once, hadn't he? He had said that he admired strength, first and foremost, higher than her intelligence and far above her beauty. Grace had always clung to power, always always  _always_  made sure that she held whatever control she could in her fist. And now she had gone and slit herself open, admitted that she wouldn't, maybe even couldn't, do the most basic thing a woman ought.

"It's probably for the best," he finally murmured.

Grace let out a breath, a couple more tears escaping her eyes. It wasn't the fiery dart she had feared, but it still hurt.

"It would be no reward to pass on what my father gave me, I think. It's not…" Jonathan cleared his throat, the tiniest sound. "I wouldn't want to risk another child facing what I did."

Grace looked at him and found him staring off into the dark distance. Weakness for weakness, just like that.

She closed her eyes again and hid her face against his chest.

* * *

Grace could barely contain her excitement as she hurried down the lane to the governor's house. Responses had finally come back from Montreal, and they were  _good._  One had even invited her to visit personally. If she and Jonathan played their cards just so, if they were successful with even  _one_  of these companies…

Grace had never tasted wealth, but she had a feeling it would suit her just fine.

The soldiers at the door both swiveled in her direction as she came closer. She opened her mouth in greeting, then noticed how they were holding their bayonets.

"Oh," one of them sighed, a younger boy that spoke with the harder edges of the New World. "It's just you, Mrs. Chesterfield."

"…Aye, that it is." A few shadows moved on the curtains to the parlor, accompanied by the rumble of voices. She looked back at the sentries. "Staying warm out here? A bit late for such a meeting, isn't it?"

"We're fine, Mrs. Chesterfield," the older soldier said. "You'd best get inside though. As you said, it's cold."

Grace eyed them for a moment, then nodded.

"Thank you, gentleman," she murmured, letting one open the door for her. She glanced back as it swung shut.

The men she had heard were gathered together, murmuring despite the moment of raised voices. She eased closer, certain they'd stop once they knew she was there. Their voices were too low for her to hear, though, hushed and urgent. Her stomach twisted when she saw they were comprised of the senior most officers left in Fort James.

"Ah, Mrs. Chesterfield," one said, catching sight of her. All of the men straightened and turned to look at her. Jonathan stood in the center, his blue cloak a spot of stunning dark amidst all the red. His expression didn't chance as he looked at her.

"Evening," she said. "Is…everything alright?"

The men hesitated, a few flashing looks at Jonathan.

"It's fine," he said briskly. He glanced at the soldiers around him. "Go on, then. Keep an eye out."

They men all left the room, murmuring goodbyes as they passed Grace. She kept her gaze on Jonathan. He returned her look, shoulders straight, chin up.

"You've only just got in," she said, nodding at his cloak. She could see the glitter of freshly melted snowflakes on his shoulders. "Am I right in guessing it's for the same reason those men outside were half ready to shoot me?"

He didn't answer. Instead he kept staring at her, considerate as a cat eyeing a bird with a broken wing. Grace resisted the urge to shift self-consciously. He hadn't looked like that in a long time. Not since they had really started working together.

"Are you coming from the Ale, then?" he asked.

She sighed through her nose, ready to laugh at herself for dreading a more serious question. "Yes, of course."

Grace forced a smile, tasting her own uncertainty as she bared her teeth. There was something heavy in the air, making it hard for her to breathe. But Jonathan didn't smile back, just kept that cold, unblinking gaze.

"What, am I not worthy of your confidence, anymore?"

"No, no, I'll tell you everything, as always," he said.

Grace huffed and tugged at the clasps of her coat. She shrugged out of it, saying, "Fine. If you don't want to tell me now, then listen. I've got news."

"News."

"Yes, that's what I said." She turned to face him head on, eyes narrowing into an almost squint. The hadn't talked since her confession about her father, not really. Grace had left in the morning as usual, and other than a brief word in the street he next day, they had been left to their own devices. Grace had thought—had assumed, that they were fine, that their delicate balance of power had held.

Unless Jonathan really  _did_  look down on her for all she'd said, unless he'd lied when he had listened so quietly, held her so sweetly. Was that hard something in his eyes condescension, possibly even disgust?

She lifted her chin. "You have something you'd like to say instead, Jonathan?"

"You came straight from the Alehouse?"

"I—well, no, I had errands to run, first."

"Errands."

"Yes, to the tailor and then the butcher—why do  _you_  care all of—"

"And it was all quiet on the road? No strangers, no fuss?"

Grace set her jaw, a delicate sort of worry creeping up her spine. "Are you accusing me of something?"

He gave a derisive ' _che'_.

"What good would that do?" he asked, sweeping past her.

" _Excuse me_?" she asked, following fast as he climbed up the stairs.

"Oh you, know trouble never sticks to you," he said, not bothering to look back.

"I came here with  _good news,_ " she snapped, anger mixing in her stomach because he was supposed to be  _excited,_ happy for her, happy for  _them._ Their fortunes were about to change, and he was pissing on all of it.

" _Good news,_ " he said, wheeling to face her once he was inside the bedroom.

"Yes, about—"

"Is it good for us, or for  _you?_  You've played sides against each other before, why would you stop now?"

"I— _what_?"

Jonathan brushed past her again and swung the door shut. She stared at him, completely unimpressed by the loud bang it made against the doorframe.

" _Declan Harp,_ " he finally said, with the air of a man who knew he had been betrayed but still needed to see how far the damage went. "He and his gang of misfits and savages stole through here within this last hour. They killed three of my men, with two more not likely to see the morning."

Grace blinked. She opened her mouth, then closed it again.

Declan had come through the fort? He'd never be that careless, surely. He couldn't just pass himself off as some trapper anymore, not with his bulk and his scars and his chilly manners burned into the fort's memory by his near execution. Surely, he would have scouted the place, sent someone less recognizable, talked to his sources, made certain that all his friends were in place, all his enemies unaware.

She almost fell back a step when she realized that meant he had come without seeing her.

Whatever Jonathan saw on her face, he didn't like.

" _Yeah,_ " he sneered, "I know. He was after the furs, apparently. Couldn't do the work himself, anymore. More than that, my men saw that little Irish shit Smyth disappear into the Alehouse." He inhaled slowly, and for the barest moment he almost seemed calm, collecting all of his anger into a more usable shape. "Why did you betray me like this, Grace?"

" _Wha—_ you think  _I'm_ involved with all of this?" she demanded. Hurt had made her voice higher than she would have liked. "All because some dark-haired Irish boy came into the  _community ale house_?"

"Don't play dumb, I know you've helped Harp before." Jonathan tore his cloak off in a rough movement, like he couldn't bear being still anymore. He tossed it onto the writing desk and looked back at her. "That night he was set to hang, I  _know_ you had a hand in setting off all that gun powder."

"Good  _grief,_ Jonathan, do you  _hear_  yourself?" she demanded. "That was  _months_  ago!"

"Grace," he ground out, control wearing thin.

"No, I won't be quiet! Is this really what you think? I'm out of sight, so I'm helping to  _destroy_  you? Never mind the fact that I'd be destroying all that I've got riding on  _you_  succeeding?"

"Oh, but you'll have Harp sweep in and fill my place," he scoffed. "You've always had an obsession with him, right? Just another powerful man you want to break?"

" _You're_ the one with the fucking obsession," she shot back, not giving herself time to dwell on just how canny his summary was. "Always bringing him up, always trying to convince people you're better than him. Are you ever cold, convinced as you are that you're in his shadow? Have you even for a second felt safe in your own skin, or is this a recent development?"

"I trusted you," he snarled, stepping closer. "I can't believe I was such a fool to believe your fucking lies. Is your father even dead? Did you only cry to get me to lower my guard?"

"Are you a fucking idiot?" She fell back, face burning and breathless like he had just struck her. "You think  _all that_ was a ploy?"

 _Jonathan_  had trusted her?  _Jonathan_  had been the one to sacrifice? He'd practically been begging for her to ask about his past, been waiting desperately for someone to hold out their hands as he poured out all his pain and anger toward his father.  _She_  had been the one to cut herself open, passing him the secrets that could have her entire existence  _burned to the ground._

"I've seen you lie about worse, with no hesitation," he told her. "Where the fuck is Harp, Grace? I swear I'll hang him for good, this time."

"I don't know."

" _Where is he?"_

"I don't know!"

"Why are you protecting him? Don't you know what he is, what he's done?" Jonathan demanded as he stepped closer. "You lecture  _me_  about violence, about how this whole place will turn on me the moment I shed another drop of blood  _defending them_ , and yet you've placed that  _animal_  on a fucking pedestal!"

" _What_  pedestal—"

"He killed a  _boy_  tonight, Grace." Jonathan had his wild smile again, jeering the words at her because he knew it would draw more blood than a blade. "Cardwell was barely eighteen, and Declan Harp slit his throat. But I guess the boy's lucky he didn't get worse. Harp carves people up, did you know that? Before I left London, he'd sliced the skin off three soldiers, and then he cut off all their fingers. He ripped out their  _guts,_  Grace, all because they worked for the HBC."

Grace blinked fast, swallowing down the horror climbing her throat. She didn't want to believe it, her insides twisted at the thought of Declan doing that to innocent men, to innocent  _boys._  At the same time, she knew that he was entirely capable of it. Whatever Declan was now had been forged in the blood of his dead wife and child and set to cool in the brutal northern winter. There was no brutality that he could not commit against Benton to exact his revenge. But the important fact was that he  _would not_  commit them against anyone else.

Jonathan had backed her against the closed door, her elbows and heels just barely brushing the wood. His face was close to hers, their breaths snarled and tangled as much as during any of their kisses. He was so  _angry,_  eyes wide and seething and woefully hurt.

But they seemed to have found the eye of the storm, both silent as they searched for the truth in each other's faces. Need and fear haunted the edges of Jonathan, flickering just enough for her to see. He needed the truth, needed a definitive answer as to whether she had chosen Declan Harp over him, and yet he feared her betrayal more than musket balls or hatchets or a hangman's noose. She felt the same twist in her bones, the need to know whether Declan had truly done the crimes laid at his feet even as she feared that he was as lawless and cruel as many claimed him to be.

Grace pressed a hand to Jonathan's chest. His heart beat fiercely beneath her palm.

Jonathan's expression flickered, a grimace cutting through the regretful longing on his face. He took hold of her arms, firm and frightening in the warning they sent. She refused to flinch.

"Grace, tell me where he is."

She felt something crack in her chest, not much, but enough to be noticed. She could have hoped that Jonathan would have trusted her when she told him the truth.

"Ask me again, my answer won't change."

Jonathan jolted her back, the action made all the more sudden by the door's loud rattle. Grace laughed to show she wasn't afraid.

"What? You'll actually attack me like you've always threatened? Got too much of your father's blood to stop yourself?"

He snarled at her, making Grace reconsider her belief that he would never use his fangs on her. But she was angry, now, angry at him and stupid fucking Declan Harp and herself for trusting these men, trusting  _any_ man when it always ended in her crying by herself.

"You're a  _fucking snake,_ " he told her, jerking her for emphasis.

Grace shoved him away. He fell back half a step, a fresco of handsomeness and power and the dangers of letting someone get too close.

Jonathan surged back toward her, and this time, Grace punched him in the mouth.

They stared at each other, his hand held halfway to his lip like he couldn't quite believe she had struck him. He was wild and hurt and unbearable and Grace wanted to take it all into her mouth.

She kissed him, hard, hands grabbing his neck and jaw even as he snatched up her waist. Their kisses were ravenous, tongue and tooth and taking and taking and taking.

Jonathan forced her back against the door, knocking the breath out of her. He grabbed at her clothes, ripping off buttons and stressing seams, trying to gain access to her skin. Grace yanked off his suit coat, tugging his arm back for half a second. He tore his arm free, shaking the garment off and grabbing hold of her again

He worked brutal love bites into her neck and collarbone, laying claim more than causing pleasure. Grace pulled on his hair, sucking a breath through grit teeth. He hiked her leg up, fingers splayed on the underside of her thigh like a fiery starburst that burned through her breeches. She kept a leg down, though, refusing to let him knock her from her feet just yet.

Jonathan yanked her shirt up over her head, the cold air slamming into her with more fury than usual. She let out a sound of shock that Jonathan quickly swallowed. His hands fumbled at her breeches, but she pushed him away again. Jonathan pulled her with him, swinging her around so she landed hard on the bed.

Jonathan's mouth was on her breast, his hand was on her waist, his other yanking off her boots. She undid his shirt, finally working it loose enough to pull over his head.

He looked up at her, feral and lustful and so devilishly appealing. He didn't look away when he tore off her breeches. His were quick to follow, of course, but it didn't change the violence with which he touched her.

Grace had heard sex described as 'making love', which was ridiculous. Right now, Grace supposed they were much closer to making war.

They were on the middle of the bed, now, chests pressed flush, kissing with a fury as they fought for purchase on each other.

Grace didn't know why she was doing this, didn't know what she was proving by continuing on. Jonathan didn't actually think she had helped Declan Harp, not anymore, not if he was willing to lay down with her rather than exact his information and blaze into the dark to find Declan. But he was still doing this— _they_  were doing this—to hurt Declan. Jonathan wanted to lay claim to a woman he thought Declan might love, and Grace wanted to spite Declan because she had chosen someone else. And yet, she was fairly certain they were still hurting each other in the process.

"Is this what you wanted, then?" Jonathan growled against her lips. His hand was on her hip again, thumb digging into the seam where her leg met the rest of her body. "Me to just sit by while you carried out your schemes, waiting until you came home and were ready to fuck?"

"I didn't have anything—to do with Harp," she repeated. His hand was lower now, enough to make Grace bit her lip when he ground his palm against her.

"But you still wanted me to sit at your knee, waiting, doing nothing, letting you have your way with me?"

Grace looked him dead in the eye, poison for poison.

"But you  _knew that,_ " she grit out.

He pushed his hand up harder, making her gasp. He kept going, teasing out something she supposed might as well be called pleasure. Grace dug her nails into his shoulders. She had never appreciated this aspect of his nasty streak.

"You can't really—really think I'd ever—betray you like that," she finally said. She knew how much it sounded like a groan.

"Can't I?" he said, voice tantalizing and soft as he almost kissed her neck. "You've done it before, Grace. You've always done it before."

"It'd be a waste of effort, now."

He moved faster in response, silently telling her that he had all the control here, no matter what she liked to think. Grace closed her eyes. She didn't want to look at him just then, because she  _was_  losing control of the situation, his fingers were inside of her and it felt damnably  _good,_ she had no idea where she was supposed to go next, he knew everything she had done, everything everything everything, her secrets and her crimes and her passions. She should have fought him from the first, before they were ever married, before she'd lost her head and told him all she shouldn't, before she'd ever developed this craving for his touch _,_  fuck fuck  _fuck._

But she had one final thing, one piece he could never wrest from her fingers.

"I  _made_ you what you are," she hissed, hands still on his shoulders, hips angling so he would go just where she wanted. "I made you governor, I made you respected, I made you  _this._ "

He was silent for a moment, hating her with his eyes even as he kept pleasuring her with his hand, even as he tried to hide the respect in his heart. The thrill of it all pushed her to breaking, almost, almost.

"And I made you what you are," he said, the snarl ripping through the tail end of his words. She stared at him, caught for words, knowing somewhere in the back of her mind that maybe she should not let him continue.

" _Wanted,_ " he finished, and Grace broke.

She slumped against him, breathing hard. She was pathetic. Her hands were in his hair and her breath was on his skin and she had  _chosen_ to be there, even though he held the truth over her in a vice. She enjoyed being with him because he held that power over her.

But Jonathan wasn't done. He took her by the shoulders and turned her around.

"Hands and knees," he growled, and Grace obeyed. She shivered as he took hold of her waist. Her body still thrummed with the memory of his, a disorienting echo of when his touch had been solely gratifying and even more so of when it had been disturbing. And then he was thrusting into her and a part of her enjoyed it and part of her noticed that this was something she might never come back from.

Jonathan's fingertips dug into her skin, promising bruises. She clenched her hands into the bed clothes.

 _Good_ , let her bruise. Let him see the evidence of his temper, later, after he'd sobered, after he'd put on the trappings of civility. And Declan—

Declan would never know. He had never noticed or acted on or even cared for the armored heart she had nudged in his path. He clearly didn't care enough to tell her about his plans, even when  _she'd_  be the only one that would suffer. He didn't even know how desperate, how  _willing_  she was to cling to the first thing that made her feel wanted.

Jonathan thrust harder, and Grace reached back to grab his hand. She dug her nails in, gritting her teeth, refusing to let out a sound. It would probably be of pleasure, and she didn't need to admit that out loud.

"You chose him over me," he grunted, voice thick and reckless. "Always have. And you somehow always get away with it."

"And why is that?"

Jonathan hauled her up against him, hands on her breasts, his breath hot on her neck. Her hand was in his hair, she didn't know how, she couldn't let him go—

"I love you, Grace," he growled into her ear, "and I fucking hate you for it."

The ice in Grace's belly formed fast. He kissed her neck and cursed her, even as he fell apart behind her. His grip softened, hands smoothing down her stomach.

Grace pulled away. He murmured something, but she didn't want to listen.

_I love you and I fucking hate you for it._

She picked up her clothes. She couldn't feel the cold anymore. Grace could feel her hands, though, and her hips, and her chest and her back and arms and neck, because that was where his hands had been. They had even reached her heart, beating nervously in the cage of her ribs.

"Grace, I said  _wait._ " Jonathan touched her elbow, and Grace slapped him away on reflex. He stared at her. It was a grim repeat of the first time they had ever done this, with him naked, her clothed, and plenty of doubt about who had been laid bare. Only, this time Grace didn't care if he saw through her. She doubted he had seen her all night.

"Good night, Jonathan," she said, then left him alone in the governor's bedroom.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you didn't forget that this, at its core, is a dark story.


	5. chapter five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooooooooooo.....fun fact, this has been done for over a week and I just forgot about it 
> 
> also it's amazing to be able to write a story that has no pretense of being chill.

Grace wasn't sleeping. She was too cold and restless to sleep. But no matter how many furs and sweaters and blankets she had, she never warmed up. No matter how often she told herself to hush, to forget what had been said, what had been done, her mind kept churning back to the night before _._

The darkest, hardest parts of winter seemed to have climbed back inside her. Grace almost found the thought funny, because she didn't actually know when she had let herself thaw.

Fort James thrummed with soldiers, or at least, what was left of them. Each time Declan Harp evaded their grasp was another time their hate toward him doubled. It didn't help that the normal people living in Fort James had moved him from infamy into the hands of myth. No one knew why he had come, though whether for furs or silver or women, the result was the same: he had killed three men, he had vanished, and he had let Grace suffer for it. Not that she cared. All the men she had ever known used her and left, this was nothing new. Damn them and damn her for being fooled by them every time.

" _Someone's_  got their underpinnings all bundled," she heard Imogen snicker that evening, and Grace nearly put her fist through a window. Mary's hissed,  _"Imogen,_ not  _now,_ " didn't make things better.

" _What_ , you can't tell me you're not the least bit curious. She leaves late yesterday, then blazes back in after less than an hour? Lover's spat, I'd say. Knew this peace between them couldn't last."

"You sound really upset by it," Mary said sourly.

"What d'you think he did, though? Must've been him, she's been playing house for him for a while—"

 _"Imogen,_ " Grace snapped, blazing into the back room. Both women looked up in shock, guilt scrawled across their faces. "I've had  _enough._  If there's something you'd like to say to me, I'd thank you for doing it to my face,  _not_  making it the tittle tattle of Fort James."

"I—but I—"

"But you thought I couldn't hear you?" Grace demanded, taking one step closer. She reveled in the petty joy of cutting Imogen down, of throwing all her frustrated pain into a target that couldn't fight back. She was as terrible as she'd always feared.

"I'll remind you that  _I'm_ the one paying your wage and providing you with a bed. So unless you would like to go back to whoring, I'd advise you to find some taste before your tongue lands you in something too bitter to swallow."

Imogen stared at her and for a moment Grace thought she might cry or burst into a tirade of her own. But she just stood there, on the verge of something Grace didn't want to see.

"Go collect the washing or do something useful," Grace finally said, clicking her tongue in disgust. Imogen brushed past her, still silent.

Grace looked at Mary. The girl she knew so well looked at Grace like she was fearsome and terrible.

"Oh,  _what?_ " Grace snapped.

Mary dropped her eyes to the bread she was kneading. "I just thought…you seem awfully upset, to speak like that."

Grace clenched her teeth, biting back another nasty slew of words. She sighed and pressed a hand to her forehead.

"I'll apologize later," she muttered. "I just—I can't deal with her gossip just now. Not with everything else."

Mary was silent a moment, then stepped closer. Her hands were clasped in front of her, the dough still clinging to her fingers.

"Grace, I…this may be a bad time—"

"Yes it is, Mary. I—you can tell me later, but right now I need to go to the storeroom and—not now, please."

The girl hesitated, her all too pretty face pulled in uncertainty. Then her brows smoothed as she swallowed back all her protests. "Alright, Grace, it can wait."

"Thank you," she sighed.

Grace left the room to fetch her coat before Mary could ask her why she needed to go to the storeroom. There was nothing there that she could need, other than solitude.

The walk through the cold was worth it, if only for the muted silence once she closed the door behind her. Grace pressed her forehead to the wood and released a slow breath.

"Having that bad a day?"

Grace's eyes flew open and she hissed out a yelp. She whirled and made out the ruggedly handsome face of Declan Harp watching her from a corner.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she demanded, flying over to him. He fought to smother a smile at her shock.

"Hiding from the HBC, like always."

"But you can't—why are you still here?! You should be long gone by now!"

"I know, I'll be out of here as soon as I can, Grace, don't worry." He flashed her a cheeky smile, like they were kids again and this was all a clever trick. "I won't be cutting your stores  _that_ low."

"Forget my bloody stores, how are you even here?! Why didn't you say you were alive, I feared you were dead!"

"I've been busy. And your barmaid let me stay," he said, face turning serious again. "The blonde one. She let me stay after the soldiers ran through. I'm just waiting until it's quieted down."

So he  _had_ come to her. Albeit after the action was done, albeit after she had left, but he had come. Her anger at him squirmed, refusing to be put out. He still could have told her his plans  _first._  He could have not involved Mary.

And, of course, there was the fact that if Grace had stalled just a little, Jonathan would have been right. If Grace had known Declan was there, she would have helped him.

"I need your help, Grace," Declan said, and the echo of her own thoughts only served to fan her anger.

"My  _help?!_ " she laughed, voice ripping on her own frustrated disbelief. She kept seeing Jonathan's face in her mind, furious at her supposed betrayal. She didn't think she would escape so easily, should he find her now.

"Yes, I have—"

" _No,_  Declan!" she interrupted, then glanced at the windows to make sure no one was close enough to hear her. "You don't just get to come back and make whatever trouble you want, then lurk in my storeroom until I fix your mess!"

"I don't remember needing anyone to help fix my problems," he said, voice suddenly cold.

Grace stared at him. There was something harder in him, now, sharper. She looked him over, searching for what had caused the change. His hair was lighter at the ends, like he had spent plenty of time out in the sun. Where he had done that in the gloom of winter, she couldn't tell. And the coat he wore was of an animal she couldn't identify. It was turned inside out to hide the long white fur. It still spilled out around his head, though, an otherworldly collar like he was some spirit or lord of winter.

"What's happened to you?" she whispered.

"I've decided to stop playing nice. I'm done waiting, I'm going to ruin Benton for good."

 _"Benton—_ he's not even  _here_ anymore!" Grace sputtered. "He's  _gone,_ Jonathan and I took care of him _months ago!_! He's probably back in England by now, being thrown in  _jail."_

Something flickered in Declan's face, but he was speaking before she could name any of it.

"Benton's gone?" he repeated cautiously.

" _Yes,_ we had him arrest for charges of murder and corruption. You're fighting a war that's been over for  _weeks_ , now."

"But the HBC is still doing just as much as it ever was," he said, pivoting with an ease that scared Grace. "The people running it are all like Benton, eating others alive just to get rich."

"Do you even  _hear_ yourself?" she hissed, that years old hurt rearing its head again. "Why must you always be in a fight, why can't you move  _on_  already? This need for revenge is eating you alive. You can't always be throwing yourself into bigger and bigger problems you can't get out of!"

"I got out of that bounty just fine," he said, trying to bluster away her indignant worry.

Grace blinked at him, scoffed out a laugh.

Damn them and damn her.

"You got out of it.  _You_  got out of it?" She looked at ceiling, suddenly so sick of everything in Fort James. "No,  _I_ had the bounty lifted off your stupid head."

"You—wait, how?"

Grace considered for a single moment, then lifted her chin. That spiteful need to hurt was burning inside her again, and she refused to tame it. "I married Chesterfield. We made a bargain. If I married him, he'd have the bounty lifted."

Declan was so, so still for a moment. Grace glared at him, hating him even more for not reacting.

"You took on my life like that?" he asked.

"Yes."

"And he made you  _marry_  him?"

 _"Yes._ "

"But you—I  _never_  asked for that."

Grace scoffed out a laugh, because Declan Harp rarely asked for what he needed.

"It's done, Declan," she said heavily. "We can't take it back, no matter how much we may want to."

Declan looked at her for a long, silent moment. "I'm gonna kill him," he said, shouldering past her.

Panic ripped through her stomach,  _no_ , that wasn't what she wanted, that wasn't it at all.

Grace threw herself between him and the door.  _"No,_ Declan, you can't—"

"Grace, I can't let that _—_ you know what he's done, right? All the things Michael's told me about him, how he shot a man in the back, throws his hands when he's upset, is Benton's  _lapdog—_ and now he's after  _you—"_

"It's not like that, Declan,  _Declan,_  no, you can't!"

"Grace, he's an animal."

"He said much the same about you," she shot back. He was so tall all of a sudden, looming above her in the slowly darkening light from outside.

Declan's lip curled in derision. "Chesterfield doesn't know  _anything_  about me."

"Did you kill that boy?"

"I—what?"

"Last night. Jonathan said you killed a boy, one of the soldiers."

"He was a  _soldier—_ "

"He was barely sixteen!"

Declan stared at her, fury and fear still rippling in his gaze. He worked his jaw, pulling back the words he knew she would make him regret. He huffed out a breath before looking back at her.

"Grace," he said, voice pointedly quiet. "Don't tell me you think he is safe. I can't risk you like that."

" _Risk_  me?" she demanded. "Funny, that almost made it sound like you had me in the first place."

"Grace, I—"

"No, Declan, I've had enough! I'm not some—some _lantern_  you keep in the window, waiting for you to come home at night! You don't get to go away for months and expect me to always  _be there_ for you _._ "

"But you'll do it for Chesterfield."

Grace nearly slapped him. She might have, if he didn't look so much like a wild bear.

She turned to face the door. She sucked in a slow breath, fighting for a pretense of calm. She hated him and she hated Chesterfield and like always, she hated herself for letting them become important to her.

Declan shifted behind her. "Grace, I…Gracie, I didn't mean to start a fight."

She closed her eyes. He almost sounded ashamed.

"I just—I never thought…you shouldn't have to pay that price because of me."

"It's not because of you," she said, the words truer than she had intended. She could feel his doubt, so Grace turned around. "You're a part of it, yes. I'd save your life again, whether you asked it or no. But if I didn't wish to be where I am, I wouldn't still be here."

"But  _Chesterfield—_ "

"Is exactly where I need him," she said, because it sounded all so neat that way. Chesterfield was a piece on her game board, a rook she had filched from the world and converted for her own use. There was no crying, no snarled accusations, no thoughts of betrayal, no whispered confessions, no tearing off each other's clothes because they were viciously angry but could no longer stand to make each other bleed.

"Come on, you can't control him, Grace."

"Of course I can."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow. Grace straightened.

"I made him governor, and I made myself the governor's wife." She stared into Declan's eyes, one blinded by steel and the other by pain. "Tell me that counts for nothing out here."

He didn't disagree, but she could still see the uncertainty in his face, the need to rescue her from a threat he was certain she couldn't manage. After last night, Grace was starting to wonder if he was right.

"What did you come here for, anyway?" she asked.

Declan looked at her warily, like he wasn't sure he wanted to let the subject go just yet. anything. Grace rolled her eyes.

"Declan, come on. The sooner I know is the sooner we can get you out of Fort James." When he still didn't react, she heaved a sigh. "Stop worrying about me, Declan. I'm not a wanted criminal."

It took him a moment, but Declan decided against his misgivings and nodded at her.

"We tried to steal from the HBC, but things went wrong. Now one of my men is stuck in the fur storehouse with a dozen guards outside, and he's going to die of thirst if he doesn't eat a bayonet trying to escape. We need to get him out of there."

Grace stared at him for a long moment, then closed her eyes.

"Oh, Declan," she murmured, looking back at him. "There are other—"

"I don't want to  _hear_ about other ways," he snapped. "I don't want to talk about what I should and shouldn't do, Grace! Just—are you going to help me get Magnus out of there or not? Because if we try without you—if we leave him  _alone,_ Fort James is going to have a lot more bodies to store until the ground thaws enough to dig their graves."

Grace took in his ragged protests and shook her head.

"What about your other men?" she asked. "The Black Wolf Company was no trifling matter, last I heard."

He shifted, glanced away. "We've been pretty tight since Benton. He…well, it's not good for morale."

"How many do you have, Declan?"

"Three," he said, daring her to challenge him, to tell him this was madness to side with Jonathan after all. "Everyone else left when the plan went sideways. They're only in it for the furs."

"That's not much," she began. His lip only curled in defiance. "But if even all your men are wanted criminals, I can help get your man out of there."

Relief flickered through his face.

"Really?"

"Yes. I only undersell my skills, Declan, you should know that by now."

"And the furs—"

Grace's lips tightened. Declan's words cut off and that momentary lightness left him.

"Right. It'll reflect badly on Chesterfield, which reflects badly on you."

She didn't miss the frost coasting his words.

"I'm not his  _pet,_  Declan. I'm just saying it'll be a lot damn harder, getting both the furs and your man out safely."

"Right."

He looked away, running his tongue over his teeth at the prospect of such a loss. Then he looked back at her, gaze bright.

"Why do you stay, Grace?"

"What?"

"I can get you out of here, Grace. You had the bounty lifted, we can go at any time."

"And Chesterfield will just reinstate it," she reminded him.

"Who cares? You don't have to tie your fate to his. If you wanna leave—we can disappear into the forest. Go west, leave the disputed territory. We can regain our strength, and then the HBC won't stand a chance."

"You know I'm not the kind for tents and rough travel," she said, panicking slightly at the flicker of warmth flashing through her stomach and into her face. She'd dreamed about this, once, when she was still bright and hopeful about the world and herself.

" _Gracie,_ " he whispered, pulling her closer, last chance, last chance. "You don't have to stay. I won't kill him, but if you want to be free of him…"

A part of her wanted to say yes. The angry part, the lonely or even wanting part, it said that this was the right choice, objectively, if she ever wanted to stand on her own, truly and completely. Declan would give her the mountains and the furs and the sky, wild and willful and free of all the trappings that went with being the governor's pretty wife.

But that was for a different Grace. That was for a Grace that was not too distant and yet all too far away, one that could have come to love the wilderness if Declan had only showed her how. Not the one that feasted on the ignorance of men and thrilled at amassing power one secret and negotiation and filthy kiss at a time.

Declan saw the hesitation in her face.

"Why are you doing this, Grace? If you don't have to stay, if you're willing to defy Chesterfield, why not just be rid of him entirely?"

Grace looked down. She was furious at Jonathan and hurt at what he had said, but she didn't want him dead and she didn't want him gone. He worked with her, he always had. Better, she feared, than Declan might have.

He stared at her, terrible realization breaking over his face. "You chose him. Even after all he's done, you chose him."

She snapped her eyes up, feeling far more exposed than she should have. They stared at each other for a long moment, then Declan looked away. That was the biggest difference between him and Jonathan, she thought. Jonathan would have seen the opening and pressed it.

"I've made my bed here, Declan," she said softly.

"You didn't  _have_  to. He can hurt you at any time, you  _know_  that."

_You're a fucking snake._

What a twisted truth that was. This place was turning them all into animals.

"Yes, well, that's nothing new here."

Declan put one of his big hands on her arm as she turned to go, eyebrows furrowed. "Come on, Grace. That's not a reason. Not for you."

She looked at him, considering, considering. "I do it because I can," she admitted, because she just wanted someone to understand what she was, in her entirety. She was tired of people looking at her and seeing only a sliver of her truth. "I do it because it'll get me what I need. I'm sorry. I'll make sure you get dinner."

What little that was left of Grace's heart cracked when she saw him give her up, right in that moment.

She was tired, she realized. Grace was tired of being caught between the two.

Grace pulled back. She walked to the door, heart pumping fast like it had a thousand times before. She couldn't feel the hurt of it right now, but she would later and she would survive, just like she had all else.

"You've changed, Grace," Declan murmured.

She paused, hand on the door.

"No, Declan," she said, refusing to turn around. "You just never wanted to see me before."

Grace pressed her hands to her face as she stepped back into the Ale. The noise of the tavern was smothered in the back, keeping her removed from real life for just a moment longer.

She could do this. Seeing Declan had rattled her, but not feeling the same about him had rattled her more.

It was like Jonathan had said—Declan was a mirage. Or, at least, he was now. He was still important to Grace, of course, but he was not hers to keep.

The thought scared her. Between Jonathan and Declan, Grave barely knew where to put her feet.

Mary swept through the back and Grace straightened.

"Is our guest doing alright?" she asked. That had been what she wanted to talk to Grace about. The realization was dim on the horizon of everything else Grace was feeling.

"Yes, for now," Grace muttered, then went to put her coat away. "He'll need dinner soon."

Grace worked as people came, left, ordered more and more drinks. Dark deepened outside, and Mary stepped out to leave a basket of food in the storeroom. The thought of the man trapped under the tunnels lingered in the back of Grace's mind.

She was sick of people disrupting her life. If Declan had stayed gone—if she had followed her better judgement and not helped him before—then everything would have stayed tidy and fine.

She served a new tankard to a tipsy Quaker, who seemed to have lost God when he found the bottom of a bottle. He was the latest inhabitant of Fort James, full of good gossip from the south.

Jonathan entered the Alehouse, a silent storm head in his new dark coat and governor's power.

Grace smiled at the Quaker and nodded to encourage him to keep talking.

"Grace," Mary murmured, watching Jonathan approach. Grace waved her hand to show she had noticed him, then turned away when Jonathan came closer. Grace refilled another man's cup, wiped the counter, smiled and exchanged witticisms with another man down the bar. She reveled in the fact that Jonathan had to wait at the end of the bar in silent uncertainty.

When she edged closer to serve another man, though, he said her name and reached out for her arm. Grace shot him a look and pulled her elbow away, then remembered the man waiting for his port. She quickly handed it over and sent the man off with a smile. It dropped as she turned back to Jonathan.

"What."

"We need to talk, Grace."

"Oh, is that what we need to do?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

He worked his jaw. "Some things were said which—"

"Hold on," she said, silencing him with a finger and sweeping a plate out of Mary's hands. She dropped it off at a table, then returned. Jonathan was barely keeping his temper in check, knee bouncing as she settled in to listen again. The corner of his mouth was bruised from where she had hit him.

"I might've—I made some conclusions that weren't quite fair, but your past actions—"

"And it's all on me again, isn't it?" she asked. If her mind had wandered back to the storeroom where she was hiding Declan Harp, well, Grace made sure it never reached her face.

Why was she playing with fire like this? Why did she insist on scooping her fingers through the flames when she so feared the agony of being burned?

Because she was angry, she thought, staring into Jonathan's handsome, irritated, and obviously anxious face. Because it wasn't about  _Declan,_ it hadn't been for so, so long. It was—

"Grace, it's not in your best interest to ignore me—"

"And why would I want to listen to you?" she asked, lip curling. "You clearly don't think much of me."

"Grace, I didn't mean to imply—"

"Imply? No, you didn't  _imply,_  you said it outright." She worked her jaw, fighting the heat building behind her eyes. "You called me a  _snake_."

He blinked at her in surprise. Grace turned away. She hadn't meant to say that.

"I have a business to run. I can't be glued to our side everyday—"

 _"_ Grace _, no,_ " he said, grabbing for her arm again. "You don't get to walk away from this!"

"Raise your voice again, Chesterfield," she told him, voice quiet as the wind before a rain storm. "Tell me what to do again. Please, just try."

He stared at her, caught between wanting to lash out in frustration and needing her to listen.

"I'm not leaving," he said, voice ground into quietness, "until I've said my piece. Now, unless you want me to order everyone fucking person from this dump so you can focus, let me talk to you now."

"A threat as always," she sneered.

To her surprise, Jonathan almost laughed. "You don't listen any other way, Grace. You don't even try."

They stared at each other for a moment, then Grace made a quick sound of disgust.

 _"Fine,_ " she snapped, stabbing her hand into her pocket for her key. Grace would have liked to shove it against his chest, but she could already feel the attention they were attracting. She stuffed the key into his hand instead. "My room is the first on the right. I'll be up in a moment. And don't," she said, pinching the edge of his cloak to get his attention, "touch any of my belongings."

Jonathan hesitated, then nodded and climbed upstairs.

Grace didn't allow herself a sigh or a moment to close her eyes or anything. She set her shoulders, looked around the room, then served up another drink.

"You don't have to go up there," Mary said, catching Grace's sleeve. Grace jerked out of her reach, instinct screaming that she had been grabbed far too much today. Heat trickled into her face when she saw the shock on Mary's face, quickly replaced by hard determination. Grace turned away from the main room, gesturing for Mary to step closer.

"I can't just leave him up there," Grace said.

Mary shook her head. "Grace, I don't know what's going on, but—forgive me, but there are better choices."

"Like what?"

Mary didn't waver when she said, "The storeroom."

Declan. Mary wanted her to go with Declan. She had never offered much of an opinion on Grace's relationship with the man, but if she thought life on the run with a savage outlaw was better than staying in Fort James…

Grace shook her head, biting back a short reply. Mary couldn't know that she had already had this conversation with Declan, it wasn't her fault for echoing it. Grace let out a slow breath and looked at her.

"No, Mary," she murmured. Grace put her hand on the girl's elbow for extra emphasis. "It would be insufferable for you if Jon….it'd be best for all if I stayed. And I'm not suffering half as much as you think I am."

"But he—"

"Mary," Grace repeated. Her armor had clicked back into place, and for a moment, Grace actually felt like herself again. Strong, mighty, standing tall, not at all hurt by the things her husband had said. She looked into Mary's face and said what she needed. "This is no trial for me. I choose to be here, his claws and all."

She stared at Grace, eyebrows pulled in a look of quiet horror. " _Why?"_

"Because those claws are useful to me."

Mary continued to stare at her, but she stepped back and let Grace go.

"Keep Imogen away from the door," Grace said, then climbed upstairs.

Grace paused outside her door for a moment, then set her shoulders and walked in. Strong, mighty, not at all hurt by the things her husband had said.

Jonathan turned to face her as the door swung open. Seeing him there put her teeth on edge. This was  _her_  space, bought and bled for. He would not touch her while he was here, that she swore to herself. Not in violence, not in lust. She would be as icy to him as she had ever been.

The stared at each other for a long moment, faces mostly shadowed from the thin light of the fireplace.

"Are you going to say something?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Are you going to listen?"

"I might." She folded her arms, determined to stay on the offensive. Jonathan wouldn't let her get away with misspeaking again. " _You_ didn't."

Jonathan made a sound of annoyance and rolled his eyes. "I made a  _mistake,_  Grace _,_ alright. I fixed it in the end though! What more do you want?"

"Fixed it?" she laughed. "And how's that? By fucking me instead of having me arrested, is that it?"

Jonathan simmered, knowing enough to not argue.

"I recognized," he said slowly, evenly, as much to make sure he didn't say something rash as to make her understand, "that I should have asked you about it before believing you had helped Declan Harp. But—"

"Don't say ' _but.'_ "

" _-but,_  I thought it…feared it possible that you might have favored him as an ally, as he continues to avoid capture and retain power."

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you've done it before."

Grace's jaw ticked. His gaze was so hard, challenging her, daring her to disagree. She stayed silent. She shouldn't have been surprised, really. He was too cunning to not recognize just how deftly she had played Benton, Declan, and himself off each other.

He made a noise of derision and looked away. "You're not even bothering to disagree."

"What's the point?" she scoffed, brushing past him to draw the curtain. "You've made it clear you'll come to whatever conclusion you want."

"Grace, I said—"

"I know what you said," she said, turning back around. He just watched her. Grace refused to fidget under his gaze, so she lifted her chin. "Is that all you wished to say?"

"I suppose. What was the good news you had? Yesterday, when you came."

 _"Oh,_ now _you_ want to hear it?"

" _Grace,_ " he huffed, then pursed his lips into a thin line. "Why are you fighting me?"

"I thought that was what you wanted," she said, her smile vicious and raw. Grace bit her cheeks. She was losing control, she had to keep it together, she could not lose control again.

Jonathan curled his lip. "If you think that true, you don't know me at all."

"I know you plenty well, Jonathan."

"I only ever wanted to work  _with_  you, not against you! Grace, I said that from the beginning. You are too important to lose. "

"You aren't acting like it."

" _Look_ , I said I was sorry! I should have trusted that you hadn't sided with Harp, I was  _wrong._  Can you just—"

"It's not  _about_  him!" Grace burst out, throwing her hands up because he was so  _dense._  "It's about you not—when I—"

She pressed her lips together and glared at him. She wouldn't cry. Grace swore to herself she wouldn't cry.

Jonathan rolled his eyes. "I don't have time for your moods."

"My  _moods_?"

"What do you  _think?_  You ignore me, you play the part of the loyal wife, you sleep in my bed, then you treat me as if I'm disposable! You're more inconsistent than the damn weather!"

"And why do you think that is?" she snapped back. "You, constantly pushing me when I don't want to go, laying hand on me when I don't obey!"

"I  _never—_ "

"Oh, not last  _night,_ " she jeered. Of course he had forgotten. Then again, so had she. It was almost laughable, how she had walked in with open eyes, but slowly shut them as she went deeper. What would the Grace of six months ago have said to her? "You were more than ready to hit me when I first rejected your advances."

"That's hardly—you responded in  _kind,_  Grace."

"Then you pinned me against a wall. You tried to choke me, you  _did_  choke me." She raised her hands to mimic his action of so long ago, hands shaking and clawed near his own throat.

"But not as your husband," he ground out, like that was a distinction that mattered. "You were the one that  _ever_  threatened violence once we were married. Last night you were the one that started it."

She lifted her chin in defiance, because  _yes,_  fine, she had struck him and then kissed it better. They were both wild animals, as Grace had told Mary, handling each other with cuts and caresses in turn.

"Oh, don't stop now," he said, throwing out his hands to make himself a bigger target. "What else have I done to you, Grace? What's so horrible that you're angry with me now?"

Grace gave a hard laugh. She didn't want to say it. She didn't want him to know how much he had hurt her, but they both knew her attempt at control was cracking, so she might as well get it all over with.

"You thought I'd lied about my father."

He blinked at her, stammering for a moment before falling silent. Her fury fanned even higher at the slight confusion on his face.

"Why did you think that?" she demanded. She should stop, she knew she should stop. Grace was just driving the knife deeper into her own stomach, twisting it to make sure this was as excruciating as possible. "Why did you think I'd lied about that?"

"I—" He shook his head a little, like he didn't know why she was asking. "Because you lie. You lie all the time."

"I've never—"

"You're lying right  _now_ , Grace!" Jonathan said, his confusion burning away into anger faster than she would have thought possible. He glared at the dark window, collecting himself before he continued. "I know that you've lied to me, Grace, all the time. I may not be as clever as you, but I am not a fool."

"Oh, don't make it sound like such a big deal."

"I've never lied to you."

"And what does  _that_  matter?!" she demanded, then scowled when she realized how loud she was. Grace forced her voice down and continued. "You've betrayed me just the same. I  _trusted_  you, and all you could do was use it as a weapon."

"You can't have it every way!" he yelled at her, throwing his hands up.

She shook her head and turned away toward her nightstand. She couldn't be close to him, not right now.

"You can't lie to me everything fucking day and expect me to sift out the  _one_  fucking time you don't!"

"You told me my father was a mirage, but I  _knew_  that, Jonathan!" she snapped at him, fists clenched at her sides. "All he left me was this stupid tavern and a lifetime of hurt! He is not someone I am supposed to care about! And yet here I am and I  _care_  and I  _hate it!_  I let you see that, and you shit all over it!"

Fuck him and how he made her cry.

"How was I supposed to know, Grace!?" he yelled back, not even caring about her tears.

"Because I told you and I haven't told  _anyone!_ "

"That isn't enough!" he yelled at her, cutting the distance between them.

" _It fucking ought to be!_ " she yelled back. "I've given you  _everything._ How much more do you expect me to give?!"

He raised his hands and Grace panicked. She snatched up the letter opener on her nightstand, a brutal warning perched beneath his throat. He stared at her, eyes wide with shock.

Grace looked down and realized her mistake.

Jonathan hadn't moved forward to strangle her or grab her or pin her against the wall. He had stepped forward to gently press his hands against her face. He had been trying to wipe away her tears, like he had done before.

His eyes went from being glacier bright to a storm hanging above the sea. He slowly lowered his hands, which were still palm up to comfort her.

"So this is what you really are," he said quietly, each word pressing his skin deeper against the knife point.

She didn't speak, didn't move, didn't breathe. She didn't want to be there anymore, no matter how angry and hurt she was. She didn't want to hold a knife to her husband's throat.

"Just do what you're going to do, Grace," Jonathan said. "I'm tired of being at war with you."

Grace stared at him, then finally pulled the letter opener away.

Jonathan remained in place for a moment. He looked down at her through his lashes, expression cool and inscrutable. If Grace leaned forward, she could have kissed him. She wished she had. She would have preferred them rutting like dogs again, instead of standing there and falsely threatening him with a knife.

"I'll leave you alone, then," he murmured. Jonathan stepped back, leaving only cold air to fill his place. Grace watched him go, still clutching the knife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact: the reason chesterfield and michael and basically every other person in the show coming from the city has those glorious yellow teeth is not because they are somehow filthier or more morally dubious than everyone else in the show, it's more of an indicator that they have greater access to sugar. the bacteria that rots teeth depends on sugar-rich diets, which is far less common for people living in the new world than people living in major cities like london. so rest easy knowing that frontier got this inconsequential but charming detail right.


	6. chapter six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how apparent this has been in the story, but the timeline has changed a little bit from canon. The Siberian didn't follow Declan all the way north because the bounty was lifted much sooner, that neato Inuit family is happy and well, and, most importantly, Declan got to keep his sick polar bear coat. I wasn't kidding when I said shipping fixes everything.
> 
> also for those of you who didn't notice there's now a companion piece called _'fury'_ that's jonathan's pov and it will be plot relevant in future okay have fun bye.

The next morning was grey and miserable. But Grace was a woman of her word, so she climbed out of bed, put on a fresh set of clothes, and got ready for the day.

Both Mary and Imogen avoided her gaze as she walked downstairs. Grace knew they had heard her raging with Jonathan upstairs, but they had the tact not to mention it. Grace directed their chores as usual, then added, oh yes, she would be leaving for Montreal soon, within the next few days. Imogen's nose wrinkled as she began to protest, but Mary looked unsurprised. Grace didn't often leave Fort James, but when she did it was always without much warning. All Mary said was, "I'll make sure the Ale stays upright," flicking a glance at Imogen's back.

Grace nodded and touched her shoulder. "Good. Glad there's someone I can rely on."

Mary tilted her head like she wanted to say something, but she just smiled and nodded. "Of course, Grace. I'm always here when you need."

Grace spared her a smile, then walked into the kitchen. She braced her hands against the table and let her head hang.

As much as she didn't want to go see Jonathan, she wanted to see Declan even less. But it felt cowardly to shirk his breakfast off on Mary, particularly when she had left so abruptly the night before. So she gathered up a few things into a basket, made sure Imogen wasn't watching, then walked out to the store house.

Declan watched her from across the room as she entered, wary as an animal in hiding. Which she supposed he was. He was hunted more viciously than any game the trappers here so desperately sought.

"Here's your breakfast," she told him, setting the basket down on a barrel. "It's not much, but it'll get you to wherever your own supplies are."

"What are you planning, Grace?" he asked. He still hadn't moved closer.

"I'm going to distract Chesterfield," she said, hands on her hips. "And his men. You're going to get your man and get the hell out of here. The rest of your people aren't also hiding in cellars and storerooms, I'm guessing?"

"No, they made it to the forest."

She couldn't help a wan smile. It was exactly like Declan to throw himself back into the fire once he was sure the rest of his men wouldn't be burned.

"Alright. So long as you at least  _pretend_  to be covert and your man is quick on his feet, you should be able to get to the forest just fine."

"And if he was injured during the cave in?"

"That's your business, Declan," Grace told him. "I only promised you a way out. How you get there is up to you."

"How are you going to make sure we don't trip across any soldiers?" Declan asked. He was warming to the plan, stepping closer so that he was no longer a smudge of pale coat and fur in the murk.

"Free drinks," she said. "How else?"

He laughed and for a moment it felt like they were kids again, before her marriage and before the bounty and before his family was slaughtered and before Benton had carved apart their lives so completely. They were just  _them._

Then he asked, "What about Chesterfield?", and they were themselves again. Older, harder, less trusting.

"He won't know," she sighed, shaking her head. "Even if I can't keep him occupied for long, it'll look like this was all coincidence. He's going to think I'm there to—"

Grace caught herself before she admitted that they had argued. Declan didn't need to know all that.

A shadow filled Declan's face, but he didn't press when she said, "He'll think I'm there to bargain. The current arrangement doesn't work. He won't question it at all."

Declan looked away, then nodded. Grace sucked in a deep breath, smoothing her hands over her coat.

"If that's all..." she said, already turning back to the door.

"Grace, you don't have to—" he began, but Grace shook her head at him.

"I'm not having this talk again," she told him, but she kept her voice soft. "Eat your breakfast. Mary will knock when it's clear. And remember, this is about subtlety, Declan, not brute force. You can't win every fight with a hatchet."

He grimaced and nodded, and Grace turned to the door. Before she left, he put a hand on her shoulder.

"Be careful, Grace. I'm not losing you. I'm done losing people."

Grace looked at him, not sure what to say. So she gave the closest thing she could to a smile, nodded, and left the storeroom.

Grace idled for a while, anxiously watching the windows. Jean-Marc Rivard passed through the tavern, complaining how the winters turned colder each year. Grace was thankful only in that he offered her a brief distraction, as she told him that he was going to take her to Montreal as soon as able. He started to protest, but something in her face made him trail away in a disgruntled stream of French. Then it was just a matter of trying to find a time to go to Jonathan that was early enough to appear repentant but late enough to not look  _too_  guilty. Or maybe she was just stalling.

She told Imogen and Mary that they would be serving free drinks to the soldiers. They didn't question it. It looked like Grace was trying to make things up to Jonathan, and it was a tidy enough reason that she didn't bother explaining. She did tell Mary to knock on the door of the storehouse when they had as many soldiers in the tavern as possible, though.

Finally, Grace wrapped herself in her new coat and stole, then returned downstairs. She threw out a few reminders to the girls, then stepped outside.

She made her way to the magazine, smiling and nodding as she went. There weren't many people out on the streets, and the lack of cannon fire said that Jonathan's drills hadn't started. There were, however, a handful of soldiers guarding the magazine. Grace hitched on her best smile and walked closer.

"Hello there," she called, stopping before them. Some smiled, but a few gave only cool nods.

"Mrs. Chesterfield, afternoon. Everything alright?"

"Oh, just fine. I just feel sorry for you men, waiting out here in the cold."

A few chuckled in agreement, adjusting their bayonets from hand to hand.

"We're on watch in case that bastard Harp comes back," Vanstone told her. A couple soldiers glanced at him for swearing in front of Grace, but he ignored them. Grace doubted it was because he thought she could handle it and more because he couldn't have respected her less.

"Indeed. Well, my husband and I felt that it would be good to show our appreciation,  _and_ it couldn't hurt to roll it in with celebrating the victory of the Battle of the Boyne. Free drinks for all you men, so long as you are ready for duty tomorrow."

"For all of us?" the youngest soldier said, starting forward.

Vanstone put a hand on his shoulder.

"We need to be ready in case Harp comes back. Drink won't help that."

"When has Declan Harp ever stayed in one place for more than a day?" Grace asked, flippantly rolling her eyes. "Besides, we can all use a morale boost in this bleak winter. And," she said voice a bit more somber, "we can use a moment to mourn."

The thought of the young soldier Declan had killed flashed in Grace's head. She couldn't remember his face. The hazy image that formed was defined only by his youth.

The soldiers' mood fell with hers, but Grace flashed a brave smile.

"Still, free drinks at the Ale! Governor Chesterfield made the plan himself."

The men gave a light cheer, then left. Vanstone, however, remained behind.

Grace turned a cool smile on him. She had never liked him, with his posing and sucking up to Jonathan and lewd jokes every night after he'd had a pint. At least he also disliked her, so she didn't have to pretend too much.

"Are you not going to join your fellows, Vanstone?"

"Not thirsty, Mrs. Chesterfield."

"Well, that's a first." She hesitated, trying to think how she could get rid of him without making him suspicious. Even though Vanstone was a shit heel, she didn't want more blood spilled. She was sick of people dying.

"I don't trust you," Vanstone said abruptly, lip curled in honest disgust. "You may have all the others fooled, but I see you for want you are."

"And what is that?"

To his credit, he didn't say. Instead, he sneered, "We all know you were close with Harp, grew up with him and the like. And every time he comes here, you are always in the middle of it."

"And how's that?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"He was caught outside your tavern last time. That Irish boy was seen going in just the other night. And now you come here, luring us away with drinks and leaving the furs unguarded."

"I'm relaying news from my husband," she said. Her smile likely could have cut rock.

"Oh, you may have tricked him with your  _charms,_  but he's getting wise to you. I spoke with him the night of the attack, and he agrees there's something off about you." Vanstone lifted his chin, the smugness oozing from his smile. "I'd hoped he'd train you to something biddable, and looks like it's about to happen. So no, I won't run off for some nonsense. I'll be here, at my posts, like Governor Chesterfield wants me to."

Grace set her shoulders, settling into her stole. She had worn it because it made her feel like a queen, in her dark-colored mink and sweeping skirts. She could see it had the same effect on Vanstone, though he clearly hated it.

"My  _husband_ has asked for me to pass this news along because he is busy cleaning up the mess  _you_  let happen. I know you have hopes of impressing Jonathan and rising up to captain, but he's perfectly wise about  _you._  You change masters when it suits you, you pass your work off to others, and you are more than ready to spend your days whoring and boozing when you think no one's watching. And that night," she said, stepping closer, her smile nothing but venom and fangs, "Jonathan and I cleared up the whole tavern misunderstanding. We had a nice long conversation that left both of us  _very_ satisfied _._ "

"You can try all you want to charm him again, but it won't work. He—"

"Be quiet. Your first mistake, Vanstone, was in assuming I was a creature to be tamed, rather than did the taming. Don't let your second be trying to come between me and Jonathan. Now, either you can go on to the tavern as asked, or you can followed me up to the governor's house and explain why you second guessed his orders."

Vanstone glared at her for a moment, then looked off to the side.

"Poisonous bitch," he muttered under his breath.

Grace didn't blink. She smiled and nodded. "Fine. I'll let Jonathan know about your concerns, first thing."

Vanstone swore again, but he turned away. He looked over his shoulder and sneered, "You can't get away with things like this forever. People will stop you at some point."

Grace lifted her chin and kept smiling, as though to say she would love to see them try.

The tiny triumph didn't last long. She made it all of three steps before she realized that, yes, she was going to see Jonathan and remind him of the raging wound she had nearly opened up on his neck.

Grace smiled at the maid opening the door and breezed in.

"Where is he?" she asked, pulling off her gloves.

"His study, ma'am. But he asked not to be disturbed."

"Oh, I'll be quick," Grace promised, then turned down the hall.

She had never been in Jonathan's study, though she had passed by several times. The door was mostly closed, and she could hear the rustle of papers.

Grace rapped gently on the door and eased in.

Jonathan's expression was at first surprised, then wary.

"Grace," he said. It had all the warmth of falling snow. He leaned back in his leather chair to survey her. "What do you want?"

"I...I thought we should talk," she said. She hadn't actually known what she would say until she got there. She had vague thoughts about seducing him, maybe, or arguing again, or  _something,_  but now that she was looking at him all she could feel was fear and guilt. This whole thing had gone so terribly wrong. Part of it was her fault but part of it was his and she had needed him to see that yesterday because he had so recklessly hurt her the day before and she had wanted to pay him back and she had been so angry and blind and she had never meant it to go so far and, and, and.

Grace drew a deep breath.

"I think you said your bit well enough last night."

She looked away. "No, I—it's not like—I was wrong, Jonathan," she burst out. His eyebrows rose slightly, but he didn't speak. "I shouldn't have...I don't know what I'm doing." Grace touched her hair, wishing she wasn't so flustered, wishing this didn't mean as much as it did.

She hadn't wanted to tell Declan that Jonathan probably thought she was there to apologize, mostly because it was true.

"It...it is hard for me to do this," she said, buying herself more time. She undid her coat, but Jonathan raised a finger.

"Don't bother, you'll be gone soon enough."

She looked at him and let her hands drop. "I'm sorry, Jonathan. I made a mistake."

"Holding a knife to my throat isn't a mistake, Grace. It's treason."

She blinked at the hard edge in his voice. She wasn't sure if it was a danger or a relief to see how much he hurt.

"It is for other people," she said carefully. "But we've never been like them. And now I'm just...I'm here to tell you that what I did was wrong. It won't happen again."

He watched her for a long, long moment. Finally, he said, "Is that all?"

Grace swallowed hard, trying not to choke on the burn of disappointment. She blinked a few times, then pulled out the letter she had stowed in her pocket.

"Ah, no. No, I..." She cleared her throat. "The good news you'd asked about. Some of the traders in Montreal responded back. They are willing to talk terms. One even asked for a meeting."

Jonathan looked at her sharply, hand reaching out for the letter. "You want to go to Montreal?"

"I...thought it best. You have Fort James to run, and..." And he wouldn't have to see her, though she wasn't ready to say that out loud.

Jonathan flicked through the letter, the one Elizabeth Carruthers had sent offering to meet with Grace. He tossed it onto the desk.

"And what are your plans for Montreal, then? Who exactly are you planning to represent?"

"The Chesterfields," she said, not letting herself hesitate in case he took it as a lie rather than uncertainty.

When he didn't say anything, she stepped closer. He watched as she came closer and closer, stopping close enough to his chair that he could touch her if he just raised his arm. Grace knelt by his knee, reaching out to touch his hand. He immediately pulled away.

"I don't want to be at war with you, Jonathan," she whispered.

"You've said that before," he countered. "You say a thousand things, Grace. I can't trust you. I certainly can't trust you in Montreal."

"You think I'd cut you out of the deal?" Grace did her best to not gasp the words. She could imagine plenty of harsh punishments Jonathan might dole out, but she had never thought he would actually ban her from leaving Fort James.

"I think you tried to cut out my throat."

"I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did. It might have been the one thing you  _did_ mean. I'm like everyone else to you, Grace—a tool you use until it breaks. I'll not have that, not any more."

"But you're  _not_ ," she blurted, reaching up and grabbing his hand. "Jonathan, you're more than that. You're more than that."

"I can't trust you," he told her again. Then, quieter, "How can I trust you?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "You were right, I lie. I lie all the time, and it's kept me safe for so long that I'm so scared I don't know how to stop. But this, with you..."

He cut her a look that seemed to say  _'don't insult me'._ Grace swallowed and looked down.

"I don't know why I picked up the knife. I was angry, Jonathan, I was so angry about our fight that I wasn't thinking straight. I thought—I thought it was like before, I didn't realize things had changed. I know things have changed."

He grabbed the front of her shirt, forcing her up. Grace didn't fight, barely dared to breathe. He glared at her, expression simmering with what she hoped were the undercurrents of lust. Lust was better than cold detachment. Lust meant he wanted her, even if it was in the most twisted way he could.

"And how have they changed?" he murmured.

Grace swallowed, making herself say it out loud. "We can't succeed alone. Jonathan, you know we can't succeed alone."

He was pulling her closer, bit by bit, forcing her upright, her knee on his chair, her hands on the armrests. Their faces were perilously close, now, noses nearly touching.

"This is my one chance to be free of you," he told her. His voice was thick, bordering on a growl.

"I don't want to be free of you."

"And it's always about what you want."

"What do you want, Jonathan?"

He stared at her, eyes flicking back and forth like he might catch some difference if only he was fast enough.

He let go of her front. Grace closed her eyes, certain it was a dismissal before she felt the brush on her skin. Jonathan traced her face, fingertips ghosting against her jaw, then her cheekbone, then finally her mouth. Her breath caught when he ran his thumb over her lip.

She took it in her mouth. She could feel him tense, but he didn't stop her and he didn't pull away. His pupils grew wider and wider, the darkness winning out against the light in his eyes.

It wasn't a surprise when he kissed her. He grabbed her up like he wanted to devour her, like he wanted to inhale her, like he wanted to hate her but he couldn't and they both knew it was true. Jonathan was just as harsh as he had been the last time they kissed, walking that terribly thrilling line of hurting her. Grace didn't care. She was just relieved that he even let her get close.

Or maybe this was how they worked, now—Jonathan allowing her into his bed but never again into his confidence. They both knew he craved her touch, but maybe that was it. He wanted her, but he no longer cared about pleasing her.

Grace reached between them, undoing his trousers just enough to make space for her hands. Jonathan grunted, a sound that almost formed a word before she took hold of him. He kissed her harder, daring her farther, ordering her, forbidding her from doing anything else.

He groaned, his thumbs digging into her hips. His cock was hard in her hands and she was almost dizzy at how he kissed her enough to make it hard to breathe. Jonathan smoothed his hands up her front, taking her breasts in both hands with enough force to almost make her groan.

Grace wanted to be confused and angry at herself. She wanted to say that she was fucking Jonathan Chesterfield to keep him from abandoning her and ruining her plans just as much as she wanted to say that she hated him. She wanted to say that this was all his fault, he had forced her into this, she was still the same person from weeks ago who was disgusted at the mere thought of his body against hers. She wanted to be that despicable person that used others and murdered her guilt over it later, because at least it meant that the truth was not actually true; Grace needed Jonathan, not for money, not for power, not for rank, she just  _needed_  him and now she would do anything,  _anything,_  to make sure he stayed.

Jonathan shoved her off his lap. Grace staggered backward, the desk slamming hard into her thighs. She stared at him, mouth open, searching for something to say. But her voice failed her as his lip curled in disgust. He could probably lick the desperation off of her fingers.

"You don't get to do that," he growled. His expression was savage, intoxicated and yet hideously unsatisfied. "You don't just get to—you can't do that."

Grace blinked once, twice, then stood. She swallowed hard, breathed slowly through her nose, and walked to the door.

"Did you plan this?" Jonathan asked. His face was hidden by his hand as he pressed his fingers against his brow.

"No," she finally admitted. Jonathan looked up at her, eyebrows pulling together for the briefest moment. "None of my plans have been going right, lately."

He stared at her for a boiling moment, and then Jonathan shoved himself out of his chair and he was grabbing her up and kissing her more recklessly than before. He pushed her against the wall, nearly knocking the breath out of her but not keeping her from kissing back. His fingers fumbled for her boots.

"This is why you should wear a fucking dress," he growled, tossing one boot away and mostly loosening the other.

"Oh, shut the fuck up," she snapped, already yanking off her breeches. And then he was back up and her legs were around his waist and he was thrusting into her.

Jonathan kept kissing her, each one sloppy and aggressive and maybe he was angry or maybe he was reckless or maybe he was as desperate as her to make this crooked thing work. Grace couldn't tell and was more than a little afraid to find out. She kept her eyes shut and dug her nails into his back and pressed a hand against his face and said his name over and over and prayed and prayed that this meant he somewhat forgave her.

Someone hammered on the study door. Grace gasped and looked at it in horror, but Jonathan turned her face back with a rough hand. He didn't look at her, but he refused to let her look anywhere else.

"Sir! Please, it's urgent business!"

Van _-fucking_ -stone. Grace cursed between grit teeth. One day she was going to murder the man and tell Jonathan she was not sorry for it.

Jonathan didn't seem particularly delighted by the appearance of his second in command, either. His breath was hot on her neck, and his fingertips dug into her thigh as each thrust came faster and faster.

" _Governor Chesterfield!_ "

"I'm fucking  _busy,_ " he snarled. Grace pressed her wrist against her mouth to keep a moan from slipping beneath the door. Then again, maybe she should, since Vanstone clearly couldn't hear them as they were.

"But sir—it's about—" Vanstone attempted to open the door, but Jonathan shoved it closed with a rough hand.

Panic and triumph tangled in Grace, heady as wine. She had forgotten about Declan and his rescue. It had probably been discovered, though, thanks to Vanstone's damnably apt paranoia, and now the man likely needed Jonathan's permission or approval for drastic action. And yet Jonathan was doing exactly as she wanted without her saying a word. She bit her cheek to keep from accidentally cursing the whole thing, because she had so much more riding on this than Declan and one of his men.

"Deal with it on your own," Jonathan growled at him. "Now fuck off until I'm done."

Vanstone lingered a moment, then all they could hear were his boots as he stomped away.

Grace finally let out a proper groan, the sound equal parts relief and pleasure. Jonathan kissed her hard like he could taste the sound clinging to her lips.

They finished not long after. Jonathan let her ease down off the wall and turned away. She watched him fix his clothes for a moment before she tended to her own. He hadn't bothered taking her stockings off, but they had fallen to her ankles. She tugged them into place before putting on her breeches.

"What do you think Vanstone wanted?" she asked quietly, because it was something she would have done if she didn't already know. And Jonathan still hadn't spoken.

Jonathan sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "The fuck knows. Need to go find him." He leaned against his desk as he spoke, absently watched her fasten her boots.

Grace straightened and faced him. She had told Declan that she would stall Jonathan for as long as possible, but this wasn't about him anymore. Then again, she couldn't honestly remember a time when it  _had_  been, not really. Oh, he had been the catalyst for so many things, but in the end it had always been about her and Jonathan and how they had bloodied themselves on their need for each other.

Jonathan didn't look away when she met his gaze. That quiet, chilly look hadn't left his face; unsated and yet unsure if it would be satisfying to eat her whole. There was still something in his face that made her want to walk over and and take him in her mouth.

She swallowed and took a breath.

"Where does this leave us, then?"

"I don't know, Grace," he sighed. At least he didn't insult her by playing dumb. "Go off to Montreal and we'll see if anything's different."

Grace didn't know why his words stabbed into her chest, so she gave him a careless blink. She had wanted to go to Montreal in the first place, had had fought for him to agree, but now it felt like she had just been banished rather than submitted to.

"And after?"

"I don't know, Grace," he said again.

She stepped closer, pressing her luck, but Jonathan didn't move. He just tracked her with his icy blue eyes, wanting absolutely nothing more from her.

She stopped at his feet, always close enough to touch if he chose.

"I don't want to go with you still mad at me," she said.

"And why's that?"

"I don't know, I just—" She looked away and let out a tense breath.

Jonathan stood. Grace expected him to close the gap between them again, bu instead he walked to the door. Grace shut her eyes. She'd done what she had set out to do, or at least, she had tried. She had distracted Jonathan and plead her case and while it wasn't a job well done, it was finished.

She picked up her coat from where he had thrown it to the floor and walked to the door. Grace hesitated and looked at him.

In three days, they had fought, fucked, fought again, nearly killed each other, fucked again, and now...

"This time...did it mean anything?" she whispered.

Jonathan looked down at her and for half a moment, she thought she saw something change in his face.

"It always means something, Grace."

She wanted to say something back, but all she could do was swallow, nod, and then walk out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh no looks like having feelings is catching


End file.
